From Dust to Dust
by 13ASB
Summary: With the Capitol as strong as ever, the 98th Hunger Games call out for the blood of 23 unlucky tributes. Although the stakes are higher than ever, Samantha Parker will not go quietly into the night.
1. Evening in District 10

_**Author's Note: Welcome to a future where the odds weren't in Katniss and Peeta's favor in the 74**__**th**__** Games, instead giving Thresh the sole victory. Now, 24 years later, the Capitol's presence stretches as strong as ever over the Districts – but internal corruption and political maneuverings make chairing the Hunger Games a daunting and high-stakes position. But for the young men and women forced into the sick sport, the 98**__**th**__** Annual Games roar just as dangerous and ominous as ever – an unforgettable and terrifying reminder of the Capital's hunger for blood.  
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_**Hunger Games, Finnick, Johanna, Thresh, and all that jazz belong to Suzanne Collins. This is not really a SYOT, though if you really want to see a tribute in, you can PM me with an idea and I'll see what I can do. No guarantees. Enjoy! Part 1 of a series, hopefully.  
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**District 10  
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The summer night in District 10 blew by with warm gusts and a bright milky moon, illustrating a soft backdrop to the cool collective lowing of cattle settling down for rest. Lanterns hung outside low-slung wooden houses lit up the outskirts of the district like fireflies in the night, glowing off Samantha Parker's blue eyes as the fifteen year-old girl sat in the swaying grass that made the universal carpet of the land. The girl tucked her knees closer to her chest as she leaned against the bottom of her family's old birch front step and silently let her gaze rest upon a cluster of horses lassoed near the nearest lot of penned cattle. Nights like these usually lit her heart with the serenity of it all, but not this night. Not for the last three years.

Tomorrow her heart would pound against her chest like a jackhammer come morning, hoping to all hopes that she wouldn't be taken from these lands that she called home – taken in the sick and bloodthirsty Reaping that came like a lethal and unavoidable predator once a year, stalking the districts of Panem for month upon month before striking with a killer's instinct that ensured twenty-three of twenty-four tributes selected would never see their families again.

District 10 had hit a particularly lucky streak in the games of the late seventies, returning tributes as victors in both the seventy-sixth and seventy-ninth anniversaries of the Dark Days. For a more outlying district such as this, that was no small feat given the dominance of the "Career Districts" in 1, 2, and 4 that routinely produced tributes like resource quotas. 10's spring had run dry since then, however, watching the more powerful districts accrue victories in the time after that while failing to return home any of its lost children. A sense of futility had returned to the Reaping in the past decade or so in District 10 – heading to the Capitol was not a happy occasion.

"Still up, Sam?"

A swat to her dark brown ponytail let the girl recognize her brother's arrival. Nineteen year-old Jake had survived his seven years of confronting the Reaping and served now as emotional support to his terrified sister, although he would have made a strapping tribute – powerfully-built and suited to life on one of the better-run and prosperous livestock farms in District 10 that made up the Parker family's welfare, Jake likely could have held his own in the games. While poorer families often struggled to make ends meet and had children signing up for tesserae every year, the Parker family financial strength let Jake off easy. The odds had indeed been in his favor every year – never gaining his name in the Reaping more than seven times, he had skirted by into adulthood without the death sentence of the Games levied on his head.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam gave a fraction of a smile to her brother, although the red puffiness lacing her blue eyes spoke of conflicting emotions running through her head. "Just thinkin'."

"'Bout tomorrow?" Jake asked, already knowing the answer. "I God, Sam, you're not gonna get picked. You don't even sign up for tesserae – think of all the poorer kids who do."

Her brother's reassurance did nothing to quell the knots jumping in Sam's stomach. She had never had Jake's steel fortitude or physical prowess. The best she could offer was an astute brain and a quick mind for problem-solving amidst dumb cattle – but what good what that do if the Reaping ball tomorrow pulled one of her four paper slips up? The rigors of raising animals and going to school paled in comparison with tossing about weaponry in whatever dangerous game the Capitol could make up – and no matter how nonchalant and relaxed the Peacekeepers here on the laid-back prairie of District 10 were, the Hunger Games always had a way of bringing out the worst fears one could imagine. Three years ago in a particularly drastic games, a bioengineered virus had laid half the tributes in the Games low as the hardier physical specimens moved out to smash their weakened foes – and that was just one of the examples that laughed at Sam through her thoughts.

"But what if I am?" Sam smacked the grass with one hand, her District 10 accent cutting through her words with her fear. "What if I don't get lucky? If the odds _aren't in my favor_." The girl spat out the last four words with a sarcastic disgust, the Capitol be damned.

"What if they are?" Jake replied, leaning back onto the step and letting his eyes wander about the star-studded sky as his sister hunched over her knees. "It's not like you can do anything to avoid it. So in the _miniscule_ chance that you do get picked, you can figure out your plan then."

An awkward silence descended over the two for a moment before Jake punched Sam's knee, offering up a wry grin: "But I already told you it wasn't gonna happen."

Sam didn't sure the optimism. It always bugged her about her brother: his way of making the best of an entirely poor situation like this, to find a little light even if the whole thing stunk of manure.

"Dad doesn't seem to share your faith," Sam grunted with a frown.

"He's a stick in the mud, so why worry?" her brother replied. "But don't tell him that or he'll kick me off his money."

The sibling pair's father was no saint. Mr. John Parker was anything but the prodigal parent, taking sole custody of his children when his wife had died thirteen years prior of flu. He expected nothing but complete obedience from his children, a trait neither had developed well. Mr. Parker had often clashed with Jake as he grew and almost entirely ignored Sam outside of getting her brother to teach her basic cattle-raising techniques. It'd forced her to rely more and more on Jake, using him as a surrogate mentor in place of a parent who focused solely on maintaining his position as one of the wealthiest locals in District 10. While Sam could never claim to have suffered from real, crippling hunger or desperate need as she saw in the poorest kids of the district, neither could she say she'd had a real family upbringing. What such a childhood had done was bring the two siblings together, however – and Sam thanked every star that her brother had taken to teaching her the ropes with everything he had. To her, he was the person she had yet to be – if ever.

"You still know which one's North, right?" Jake leaned an elbow on Sam's right shoulder, his right arm outstretched and picking amongst the night sky for stars.

"Back of the drinking dipper, then three fingers up – three of those and that's North," Sam answered, lifting her blue eyes to the sky and tucking in her knees tighter as a gust of dusty wind blew past, shaking a set of wind chimes and eliciting renewed lowing from a group of cattle.

"Yup. That's it."

"You really don't think they're gonna pick me?"

Sam's eyes followed Jake's look down, searching for a reply. She'd heard denial after denial of her likelihood of reaching the games, yet a nagging knife of nerves kept a grip like a lasso on her stomach. Sleep was already out of the question; she'd ascertained that back when the sun was going down.

"Sam," Jake began, shying away from eye contact. "That boy in school who you had an eye on last year – what was his name again?"

"I didn't _have my eye on him_," Sam said with an air of exasperation mixed with defensiveness. "And his _name_ is Clay."

"Okay, Clay. Anyway, his family was poor and I remember you saying he had a bunch of siblings."

"He does. One's older by a year and three younger. His dad works on one of the other ranches on the other side of the district."

"Alright, so five kids and a father and mother. His older brother probably then took tesserae since they're poor. That's seven times he puts his name in each year to get food for all seven and he does that for seven straight years, plus the mandatory one that goes up each year. How many times is he in by the time he's eighteen?"

"Fifty-six."

"See, you're good at math. Maybe you can math everybody to death if you somehow got picked. So he's in fifty-six times. If it was just the two of you, then your four times and his fifty-six times…I can't do your fancy numbers, but look at that. It's more than ten times what you have in. Just two of you! Now imagine every other girl from the district, and all the poor ones who have to feed their families off of tesserae every year. Throw them _all_ into the pot, and in that entire thing, you've only got four slips with your name. By the time you're eighteen you'll have seven; that Clay? He had more than that his first year. You see how…tiny...your odds of getting picked are?"

"I know Jake, I know – but you see every year a twelve year-old kid gets picked, like that boy from Five last year who got picked and he ended up getting eaten by-"

"Sam! Stop," Jake grabbed his sister by shoulders before she had a chance to let another round of tears go, giving her a rough shake as she avoided his gaze. "Please, stop. You're beating yourself up over something that's not going to happen. I don't know what else I can say."

Jake took Sam in a reassuring hug as she sniffed loudly, giving her a pat on the back. "C'mon, everybody got to be up early. Let's try and at least get some sleep before the stink tomorrow."

Sam nodded furtively, collecting her wits and starting to follow her brother inside. Before she reached the wooden front door and the orange lantern that swung in the warm winds of the plains, she took a look back towards the cattle, the prairie moon, and the grasses and dust that stretched on and on for miles. That buzzing gnat in her stomach told her quietly in a mocking voice that she wouldn't be seeing this again.


	2. The Capitol's Draw

**District 10**

Dust, grass, and cows made three constants in District 10. No matter where one was, these three staples of the region were as inescapable as luxury was to the Capital or the Reapings were to the districts. An open window brought a fresh cool morning breeze into Sam and Jake's spartan living quarters the following morning, complete with a fresh round of dirt and soot. Sam coughed with a start, waking her from restless sleep populated by swimming gray dreams that shifted in and out of familiar figures. Reality swarmed back into familiar grays and light greens as she found herself alone. Of course – Jake was no longer eligible for the Games, and he had no reason to prepare himself for what awaited in a few hours.

As Sam sat up, a fresh rise of anxiety attacked her gut with a start – _bam!_

The girl fell back into her stiff mattress, trying to ward off the feelings she knew she would not get rid of until the sick ceremony at ten A.M. was over. It'd take some time and doubtless the Capitol's representation was already here – probably the same coarse and icy woman who had been around the past half-decade or so, an unpleasant middle-aged sort named Augusta Neirus. Sam dreaded seeing her face swimming back into her mind, as she had come to represent only one thing as of recently in District 10 – that some family's child wasn't going to be coming home.

And if that was her this year, she knew it'd be over before it started.

Sam had seen the other tributes from the prior Hunger Games that she and the entire district had been forced to watch on an annual basis. The muscular, physical build of those from 2; the lithe and quick power of 1's tributes; the agility and quick thinking of those from 4 – they were a big part of why 10 never won. It didn't seem likely this year either, and even though she had such a little chance of being selected, that miniscule chance was a march straight to death hanging over her head on the morning.

A knock on the ajar door disrupted her frantic network of thoughts, and she brought herself back to reality in a hurry.

"Hey," it was Jake, of course. Her father wouldn't bother expending time on his children when his eldest son could take care of that end. "Two hours before you gotta be there; pick something nice to wear. And Sam-"

The pair of blue eyes that met his spoke of trepidation; his words did their best to soothe her fears on the day that she'd been fearing every day since the previous year. "You're gonna be fine."

Sam merely nodded as Jake left her to her thoughts. Her fingers ran over the cloth of a rough violet dress as battling thoughts launched a war of words in her head. _This is it,_ a particularly resigned train of thought echoed its way through Sam's thoughts. _Pick what you'll want the Capitol to see you as and that you can wave goodbye in._

_Nonsense; Jake's right_, a more optimistic voice rebutted as Sam slipped out her clothes from the small closet she shared with her brother. _The odds actually _are _in your favor for once. Compared to the girls who have their names in dozens of times, you're hedged like a baby calf_.

_As if that stops the Capitol. They'd probably love to fillet you on live television! Standing there, shaking on stage while that dreadful guy in the colorful hair makes those stupid jokes with his really big laugh; embarrassment in front of the entire nation right before you die…_

The second voice in Sam's head refuted that assertion as she slipped into a warm tub of pre-heated water for a brief and unfulfilling bath. The Games two years before had essentially come down to six Career tributes and eighteen shaking, frightened kids who had represented easy pickings. It hadn't been much of a competition; more of a slaughter, really, at least until the Careers were the only ones standing. No one in District 10 had found much to celebrate there, and Sam privately doubted the Capitol had liked that one much either, especially given that a new Head Gamesmaker, Phaeston Rex, had taken over last year. He'd be returning, which wasn't good for the lifespan of whoever the poor tributes this year were.

_Aha! And that'll be you,_ the fatalist voice in Sam's thoughts reasserted itself as she scrubbed dirt off her sun-worn skin. _Just another toy for whatever technological monstrosity that man wants to drop on your head. If you even make it away from the Cornucopia…_

_A moot point when someone else gets selected_, the more optimistic voice returned, though its power seemed to drain away with the grit off of Sam's body. _Just hope the poor two from here go as painlessly as possible._

_Painless? You'll be crapping yourself!_

_So that was the source of the negative thoughts_, Sam wordlessly thought to herself. Mr. Parker commanded an impressive array of swear words that he tossed at his two children whenever he really felt off-kilter, and the insults and blows had stung Sam's psyche growing up. It was clear her father had never wanted a daughter even though his disappointment in Jake was palpable; she frequently wondered how he'd ever dragged himself along long enough to carve out such relative success in District 10 as compared to nearly everyone else in the district.

Sam dried herself quickly in the morning air and slipped into her clothes. To her eye they were plain, but so was everything in the district – and frankly, that'd have to do for Augusta and her death squad from the Capitol.

A kick against one of the wooden walls of the one-story home alerted her to Jake's returning presence, only her brother didn't show up – instead, a square-jawed and rough face greeted Sam with a wry grin and a relaxed posture as she quickly tied her dark hair behind her.

"Did Jake let you in?" Sam reacted instinctively, concealing a twinge of blush in her cheeks by fiddling with her hair in reaction to the appearance of her friend Clay Lamar.

"Nah, decided to let myself in. You trying to be all fancy?"

Clay and Sam had met years before when the two fifteen year-olds had been in school. Since the Parkers held more wealth than most families in District 10, many of the poorer children had prematurely judged Sam right next to the strength of the Capitol as a sort of co-conspirator to keep the district poor. With the income gap between the wealthiest families and the mainstream workers, the most influential families often drew negative remarks from the poverty-stricken commoner. Clay hadn't really cared about Sam's origins; he instead had gotten to know her as a person rather than just another influential local name. Through his nonchalant interest in her beyond simple recognition, the pair had established a friendship that survived to the day. Sam had often had feelings that transcended simple _friendship_ for Clay, but she kept these private. He seemed uninterested in such serious matters, instead keeping conversation and their relationship light and friendly – in turn, she had pushed such entanglement away, although a kernel of attachment still gnawed away at her hearth whenever the two were together.

"This is fancy?" Sam rolled her eyes. Clay had done what Jake had failed to do – ease away her tensions of the coming event, at least momentarily. "Can't let the _Capitol_ think I'm some sort of bumpkin. Besides, they'll probably dress me in some stupid cowgirl get-up like they always do to us during the opening parade."

"Oh that'd look good," Clay laughed, waving away the notion. "Sam the cowgirl. I can picture it now."

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied. Although Clay lacked the softness of her brother's protective instincts and did nothing to refute her own fears overtly, his presence alone projected an aura of calm about the entire situation – as if it was nothing to fear, but more of a reason to make fun of the people with the funny accents and bizarrely-colored hair who plucked away two unfortunate kids every year. Stranger still since Clay had taken tesserae for himself, his parents, and his seven year-old younger brother since he had been twelve – the odds were _far_ more in Sam's favor than his, yet he outwardly considered the prospect of being selected to be faint at best.

"Alright, I like your house a heckuva lot more than I like mine, but I don't wanna hang around forever," Clay pushed himself up into a straight posture, smoothing his short brown hair with a callused and work-worn hand. "Gotta still make it to the square. Can't keep _Augusta _waiting after all – I'm so excited to hear her inspiration and enthusiasm!"

"Are the odds ever in _your _favor?" Sam gave the first smile that touched her lips in days to Clay's teasing. No matter his method, he was a stabilizing influence in a situation like this – which made his implied refutations of anything but casual friendship all the more perplexing and confusing to Sam.

"Probably not, but nothing I can do about that," Clay shrugged good-naturedly as the two left the Parker homestead and moved out onto one of the dusty horse roads that laced District 10. "I guess I could raid the Reaping pot or something."

District 10 was a picture of activity today – not surprising due to the nature of the day. Raising animal herds for a living had made horses the primary form of transportation here on the prairie, and a good number of people were up and about off the dusty road as the morning sun lay down yellow rays onto the brown earth. Yellow-green grass merged into the dirt of overgrazed patches of ground, melding all the ground into a uniform camouflage pattern that masked any sort of summertime natural beauty. Only in spring and autumn did things really get colorful in District 10 – well, unless one counted the stark white uniforms of the peacekeepers.

Traditionally, the District 10 peacekeepers had laid low. This district wasn't particularly independent-minded, and most people got along just fine with each other when alcohol wasn't involved. Although they were considerable in number due to the sprawling nature of the region, they did little more than stand out like white herons against the grays and browns that permeated every building and piece of clothing around. On Reaping day, however, they always showed in considerable force – an omnipresent reminder of the Capitol's reach and a suggestion that even District 10's laid-back demeanor could not spare them the Capitol's mandate.

The positive of District 10 for the free-minded individual was its open space. As Sam walked with Clay down the wide, dusty street, she couldn't help but let her blue eyes wander across the open prairie lands. Wooden houses hung low and in various states of disrepair, although each afforded a good amount of land around it. Enterprising families had used this space to grow small, hardy crops that could take the dusty, dry earth and compete with the short grasses that made up the staple of food for the cattle herds and animals that formed the staple industry of the district. The Peacekeepers never bothered policing that sort of thing – they had taken an efficiency-minded approach to keeping order in District 10, and a family with the smart head to grow their own crops was one less thin, poverty-ravaged eyesore plastered across a street.

"Everyone's in just…such chipper moods," Clay gritted his teeth as he looked over the legions of like-minded people headed for the square for the morning occasion.

"I think we all know what's in store," Sam mused quietly.

"Odds aren't going to be in someone's favor, that's for sure."

District 10's town square reflected the arrival of the Capitol, with heavy Peacekeeper numbers and large banners sporting the crested eagle of Panem's logo draped across storefront businesses and official edifices. The dust of the prairie winds still seeped in here, but actual color was far more distinctive than out in the residential and grazing grounds. Sam's stomach revolted involuntarily by the sight of Augusta Neirus's pale blue skin and bright yellow hair already standing on the stage outside the law building that made the frontal forum for the Reaping – she had arrived early and looked as unpleasant as ever. One of District 10's two surviving victors, an average-looking man with blonde hair who Sam had never talked to named Dallas Grissom, already had taken his spot on the stage. He had won the 79th Games – the winner of the 76th Games and District 10's other surviving tribute, a rather negative woman named Cheyenne Clinton, hadn't yet taken her place. That was no real surprise – she was by far the more visible of the two victors still alive, and not for good reasons.

"Hey, Sam," Clay mentioned as he prepared to split off with the other boys of District 10, assuming a moment of seriousness. "Look, um…I'll catch you afterwards, okay?"

"Okay," Sam murmured in response, her voice catching an octave as the knots of anxiety collected in her stomach again. "I'll see you."

The familiar prick of the Reaping identifier on the finger took Sam's blood sample in logging her attendance, drawing her attention momentarily from a derailed train of thoughts spinning about in her head. The Capitol attendant spared her no notice beyond the brief interaction, yet it was enough for Sam to perk her head about. She spotted Jake quickly in the crowd of those too old or young to participate scattered about the perimeter of the square – standing with several of his own friends who had cleared the Reaping without feeling its blade, a fate she hoped to share. Their eyes locked temporarily, and that small stare told her all the words he'd failed to articulate the night before and in the morning – a protective love that gave her a spot of reassurance as Augusta stepped up to a microphone.

"Hey, Sam," a light and girly voice nearby hailed – a sixteen year-old blonde girl named Clara Bowie who had become Sam's real only other friend outside Clay and her brother. She had a head of rebelliousness that reminded Sam of Jake in a way, yet Clara communicated it in a much less directed way. Coming from another of District 10's influential families, Clara communicated a bluntness and broad sentiment towards those who expressed displeasure due to her social standing. Unlike Sam, she had preferred active confrontation against those who judged her by name rather than action; it hadn't made her the most popular girl ever, although she had forged a sort of leadership role in school that Sam had never sniffed.

"Oh. Hi Clara," Sam played at friendliness, although she preferred to be with her thoughts alone at a moment like this.

"Another year of this stupid thing. Do you think _Augusta_ knows how ridiculous she comes off?" Clara spat as if equal parts annoyed and bored by the procession. "It's like she's mocking us. She probably is."

"She can mock me as much as she wants as long as she leaves me alone," Sam replied quietly.

"Like that's ever gonna happen; they always stick their head in here," Clara continued on, missing the verbal cue Sam hinted at to stop. "Whatever. Can't believe I still have to put up with this for two years after this."

Augusta's upspeak-laced voice gave Sam a welcome reprieve from any more self-righteous ranting on Clara's behalf, officially beginning the Reaping procession.

"Welcome, welcome," the yellow-haired woman blathered, sounding tired and disappointed by the ragged crowd before her. It was clear she looked forward to departing District 10 as soon as possible. "And _Happy Hunger Games_ – may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

Her unenthusiastic greeting came just in time to welcome Cheyenne to the stage as the former victor tossed a cigarette to the dusty ground and flopped into a seat next to Dallas. Sam couldn't make out anything she was saying, but the former tribute seemed to be openly mocking Augusta's introduction to the calmer Dallas. Before Augusta could even move on, Cheyenne had a new smoke lit and puffing away – she was notorious for blowing her victor winnings on nicotine at a voracious rate. Sam figured the smokes would kill her sooner rather than later at the pace she supposedly took them at, which probably would be a blessing for District 10. At least Dallas kept his head as a winner.

"And _now_ I have a _special_ presentation to you all from the Capitol," Augusta droned out, accompanied by Cheyenne mouthing, _Something we've never seen before!_ in time with the Capitol escort's speech.

Sam hated this video presentation that happened every year – there was nothing special about it. Always the same show about how the Capitol overwhelmed the insurgent and sectarian rebels of the districts during the Dark Days and brought peace and justice back to Panem. If this was peace and justice, then things must have _really_ stunk before. Propoganda piece after piece zipped along in cue to patriotic music in the video clips as Sam noticed Clara trying hard not to look any less interested. Clearly she figured the odds were in _her_ favor. Up on stage, Dallas had reclined almost 45 degrees in his seat, and even District 10's mayor, a wizened old man with a close-cropped white head of hair named Navarro, seemed on the verge of passing out from boredom.

"Well, that was certainly enlightening," Augusta tried her best to sound upbeat after the lack of response to the video's conclusion, hiding her own feelings about District 10's dusty demeanor. "And now we get on to the big show – Mayor Navarro, if I may have the Reaping bowl for our ladies – ladies first, of course."

_That was corny_, Cheyenne mouthed on stage behind Augusta, doing a fantastic job openly expressing her disdain for Augusta. To Sam, that seemed to be one perk of being a victor – Cheyenne seemed to get away with anything she wanted, which was considerable given the woman's disgust with most everything to do with high society. Talk around District 10 claimed that her bad attitude had developed from a particularly drastic occurrence in her Games, but Sam hadn't heard the full story.

"Yet another _lucky_ tribute to be picked today, girls," Augusta said, digging her hand around in the bowl that Mayor Navarro held up with a disheartened effort. The Capitol women finally leeched her blue-tinted hand around a slip of paper, taking great effort to dig it out of the bowl before finally resorting to trapping it against the side of the glass and forcing it out. She pulled the paper up, re-assuming her posture and strutting towards the front of the podium as if finally exerting the power she held over everyone in the audience – which, despite Cheyenne's veiled hostility of her behind her back, was absolute and carried the Capitol's authority. Undoubtedly, she was the most powerful person in the square.

Sam flicked a glance towards the boys, catching the corner of Clay's eyes and holding his gaze for a moment before Augusta's voice rang out again.

"Our _lucky_ tribute from District 10," Augusta boomed with renewed vigor. "Samantha Parker."


	3. Tears and Fears

All of District 10's girls collectively exhaled with the announcement of this year's female tribute – all except for Sam, standing there with her heart having fallen into her guts. _Thump, thump, thump_ – fear ratcheted up the tension of the moment as the grays and browns of the square swirled together in her eyes. She wanted to cry out, to break down in tears and start running, yet the shock of the selection kept her rooted firmly in place as she started to sway off-balance. Sam's eyes failed to register as the crowd began parting around her to the voice that seemed so far away and numb, as if surrounded by cotton in a pillow – Augusta's voice calling for her to take her place. The voice…it called for her life. Her blood.

"Sam…Sam! Come on!"

Clara's voice and hands on her shoulders jarred Sam from the dream state she had fallen into. Her eyes darted around, catching Clara's gray irises staring back at her in a tone that spoke of the seriousness of the situation. Her arms shook Sam's still figure into action as the latter girl's mouth hung ajar, her gaze falling to her feet. Every look in District 10 had fallen onto the pair of girls – every viewer across Panem had begun watching the district's entrance into the 98th Games, and it was off to a slow start.

"I-" Sam's voice squeaked out as tears began to fall from her focusing eyes. "I don't…I…"

"Go Sam! They're watching now…" Clara eked out. She'd always been the tougher of the two, but even a moment like this threatened to overwhelm her psyche. Volunteering in District 10 was equally unheard of – no matter what she thought at this time, Clara had no more desire to die than she did watch Sam walk to her own demise.

"Well, come on now," Augusta had spotted Sam and clearly felt annoyed by the delay of her approach to the stage. "Don't have all day."

It took just a little shove from Clara to get Sam started – one small step after step she closed with the stage and looked past row after row of staring eyes. She was no Career or outlier tribute full of bravery – her emotions showed on her face via a stream of tears on her cheeks and quick, shallow breaths that struggled to give her lungs enough oxygen. Sam felt on the verge of passing out from panic just as she reached the steps of the stage, allowing Augusta to grab her hand and half-pull her up to the podium. All the faces of District 10 gazed up a frightened girl confronted by a fate far too mature for her youth – and she could do nothing but cry for her own defense.

Cheyenne broke the moment with another spit of tobacco and a glare at Augusta that could not have been missed.

"One out of two; now for the boys," Augusta crowed as if lording this moment over the two-bit district she loathed setting foot in. Savages, all of them – without the Capitol's stabilizing influence, they'd be nothing more than hunter-gatherers reduced to primitive tribalism. A grand, annual Games presented to show off the best and brightest of the districts and all she got were cold looks from these primitives? Augusta felt a moment of vindication that they'd never have more than a remote chance of winning – except that'd only mean she'd have to keep returning here until she did better.

It was a cruel paradox.

"Let's see…" Augusta droned, enjoying taking her time fishing through the male Reaping pot. Sam shook in her place on the stage during the ordeal, her lone figure representing District 10's dead children of past and present – closing in on two hundred souls since the Hunger Games had begun almost a century earlier. Discontent rumbled out from a few in the crowd at the yearly spectacle, but what could anyone do? Even Sam knew things were futile from her spot. This was it – her last looks at the people of District 10 before she'd be off to the Capitol in less than two hours.

"Laredo Deets!" Sam had slipped off into her own world just enough to miss Augusta's pick of the boy tribute from District 10, although she immediately regretted it. The powerful boy, rippling with musculature from wrangling cattle over three years, immediately evoked tension in Sam. He was the ideal tribute – strong, experienced with physical labor, and built well enough to withstand a Career in a direct confrontation. With a mane of long dirty blonde hair and two eyes so dark they seemed like specks of coal, he gave off a cool yet dangerous demeanor.

Worse, he looked the type who could kill Sam in the blink of an eye.

Laredo strode to the stage confidently, giving off all the signals of a man who'd never had luck on his side, unlike Sam. She saw the telltale signs of a boy finally either escaping the hellhole of poverty in District 10…either through fame and glory, or through an eternal sleep. To a man like that, there was no middle ground, and being chosen was not sacrificing everything you had back home.

"What a strapping pair for this year's Games!" Augusta let out a long sigh, knowing her part was done. "Shake, you two. Go on now."

Sam extended a hand in trepidation, her eyes daring to glance up at Laredo's predatory stare. He grabbed her hand in an enthusiastic grip, letting forth a powerful shake that rattled her to the bone. With that he stepped away as Augusta gripped each by the shoulder, leading them into the Hall of Justice. Sam fired a final worried glance at her shoulder, catching in the dispersing crowd – what she assumed was her final look on the people she had called fellow members of District 10. With a sense of finality, the oak doors of the Hall slammed shut, leaving her alone with the strange woman from the Capitol and the powerful boy who seemed ready to leap out and start killing right now.

Things moved in a blur. A pair of peacekeepers shoved the two tributes apart, leading Sam to her own room and shutting her in. The girl ambled over to a wooden bench inside the dark cell, her knees giving way and falling out from under her. Sam steadied herself on the bench, trying her best to control her rapid breathing and wiping away the ocean of tears that had collected on her blushed cheeks. Spots of moisture from her eyes littered the violet dress that had intended to go home at the end of the Reaping, but now would see her final steps in District 10.

"Three minutes!"

Sam's first visitor was _not_ someone she expected after five minutes of waiting. The tall, lanky form of her father slunk past the door, past the Peacekeeper guard keeping watch outside. He looked around, pulling on the edge of his wide mustache and removing his gallon hat that signified the money of District 10's well-to-do.

"Guess this is it," Mr. Parker confessed as he looked at his own feet. Sam caught her breaths in her chest as the two squared off face-to-face: she had figured he would have simply gone home; she didn't really want to talk to him at this overly emotional time anyway.

"Dad?" Sam piped up, afraid of what could come her direction. He was an unstable and unpredictable man; his outraged tirades against her and her brother had spoken of his fiery temper.

"Look, I uh…didn't think it'd be ending this way. You and I. But…you just stay sharp, alright?"

That was _not_ the sort of re-assurance that Sam needed at a time like this. He father's empathy had never been a trait he'd been known for, but he seemed to push out words for the sake of speaking at this final hour. Still, how could she reject her father – especially as she spent her last minutes in the land she'd been grown and raised on?

All Sam could do was nod and sniff away tears.

"So," Mr. Parker spoke in a sort of conclusion. "I guess that'll do, daughter. I'll see you on the other side."

Sam merely stared after her father as he turned on his heels and raised his hat to his head, leaving far before his allotted time was up and failing to even glance back. The _callousness_! Sam had anything but emotional stability at a time like this, but the mere sight of her father not even caring enough for a hug or kind word of love grew like a needle under her skin. A red boil of anger drummed up beneath the fear and apprehension that had swarmed her system, growing into a snarl beneath her throat. _One_ person she hadn't wanted to see at this moment, and he'd come in and done even worse than expected.

The next visitors were both expected and welcome. Clay and Clara barged through the door right past the Peacekeeper and fell into Sam's arms as apologies and tears flowed back and forth.

"Alright Sam, look, you can do this," Clay broke into a serious tone first as Clara dried her own tears on her white blouse. "All those Capitol people want is entertainment. Do what you can to make friends, form an alliance with another kid or two if you can; anything to keep yourself alive. Make those people _like_ you – remember the kids every year who get the audience on their side, get off to a great start? That's gotta be you."

Clay's words reinvigorated a fire within Sam that had already been brought on by her father's short appearance. He had never been one for strict approaches to survival despite his poverty, yet now his piercing gaze and hard-set face spoke of a determination to give the few words that would give his best friend a kick-start towards victory.

"I can't just do that so easily, Clay, there are others who train for this stuff!" Sam battled back her tears once more, giving a strong face for her two friends.

"Sammy, you're perky, bright, they'll love you," Clara croaked out words of encouragement from behind a strained voice and mind. "Just do what you can to get sponsors; make your mentors want to keep you alive for anything. I dunno, I don't know-"

Clay grabbed Clara before she fell off into another emotional valley, bringing her to his side as he drove in another spear of determination into Sam's eyes. "She's right. That other guy? He's just a pile of meat looking to be killed off at the Cornucopia. Show them the girl inside you. Get them to want you to win – if they do, and if the Capitol's on your side, you'll be the one to beat. Don't hold back now. If you have to kill, do it Sam."

"Time's up," the Peacekeeper marched into the room, grabbing each Clay and Clara with one hand. "Come on. Now."

"Clay!" Sam shouted, reaching out a hand and grabbing his fingertips once last time. "Wait, I-"

"Don't hold back Sam!" Clay yelled back as he struggled with the stronger Peacekeeper, his eyes etching a memory into his friend's mind. "Come back to us; I know you can. I'll be waiting. Please, I-"

The door slammed shut, leaving Sam even more alone than ever. Clara had been a mess – and Sam figured she would have been too in her shoes (heck, she already was a wreck so far today in front of the cameras) but Clay's steely single-mindedness of her winning gave her something new that she hadn't felt today – hope. Clay wasn't the boy she'd have gone to for courage in the face of fire, but maybe there was a side to him she'd missed. Maybe he had the unbreakable grasp of life she'd never noticed before.

And of course, she'd noticed it too late to matter. Too late to tell him of every feeling she'd ever had; of every dream she'd spent with him in her eyes. Maybe she'd denied any spark in Clay's direction when talking to Jake the night before, but now with the world closing around her, she only wanted _more time_. Unfortunately, that was exactly what she didn't have.

"Sam!"

Jake burst through the door after a few more minutes, with the door rapidly shutting to the tune of a Peacekeeper's statement of "three minutes." Sam embraced her brother and brought forth a new round of tears as she threw aside her imminent fate for a moment. Her cries fell into his shoulder as he held her for a solid thirty seconds; his presence told her all she needed to know and gave her the rock she needed to make it to the train.

"Listen, listen to me," Jake pulled away from Sam and sat her down on the bench, taking a place next to her. "I know you're scared, but –"

"I don't have a chance Jake!" Sam blurted out, with all her fears and struggles coming forth in a wave of emotional lamentation. "I don't have a chance – you saw the boy who's coming with me! And all the kids from the tougher districts; they're gonna be way bigger and stronger and _I don't know what to do!_"

"Use what you have Sam," Jake gripped his sister's arm, quieting her cries and letting him give her as much last-minute strength that he could. "You're the smartest girl I know and you know how to rope cattle, ride a horse, and improvise."

"They don't have _cows_ in the arena," Sam protested sharply.

"No, but if you get your hands on a piece of rope or some sort of tool – anything you can do to change your situation and give you just a little of an advantage, you can make something work!" Jake wrapped his arms around her once more, burrowing her face into his shoulder. "Hang on Sammy; you're gonna come back and we'll see each other again."

"Jake, I'm scared," Sam sniffed. "I'm not ready for this."

"_But you'll do fine_," her brother muscled through the pain and pangs of guilt; of helplessness that he couldn't protect her at her most vulnerable and wounded. "Couple of weeks from now, I'll be the first one waving to you when you get off that train from the Capitol. You're gonna be a winner."

"_Time!_ Let's go!" the Peacekeeper was back.

"_Jake_!" Sam shrieked, feeling her last connection to her entire life dragged away from her. She held on her embrace of him as long as she could until the Peacekeeper shoved her off, marching her brother off despite every ounce of fight he could give. "No! Don't go!"

"Stay strong Sammy! Carry me with you," Jake shouted as the door began to close. "I love-"

Then the door closed, and Sam would never hear her brother finish that sentence she needed now more than ever. Just her and the wooden room – now she was _truly_ alone. The vice of the Capitol had closed with the power of a noose, prying her away from everything she loved or cared about. Now there was nothing but darkness and a long ride to the foreigners who demanded her blood for their entertainment – to face her fears with every bit of strength that had just been pulled out those wooden doors.

Within the confines of this dark cell, she fell to her knees and cried.


	4. The Last Departure

_**A/N: Kinda hit the wall a bit in this chapter; apologies if it's a little jarring. Lemme know what I can improve on from these first four chapters!  
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The short ride to the train station had been a quiet one. Laredo's expression showed nothing but a stony eagerness to getting on to the Capitol, and Augusta – apparently having had enough of life in District 10 for this year – remained happy enough to let the two tributes mull over their futures. Sam didn't have a mind to talk anyway; she spent the time trying to steel herself for what lay ahead; for her final minutes in the district. Once the train pulled away from the station, the Games would _really_ be on – every second wasted after that would be time that could have been used to begin preparations. Although Sam had no qualms about her chances, she didn't want to go out with a whimper – at least, not one to be thrown aside and forgotten just as soon as life had ended. That would be a disservice to herself, to her family, and to the district as a whole.

Mulling over all these thoughts had led her to forget that this had been her first car ride. It wasn't all that different from a horse, although it was enclosed – but Sam's apprehension led her to ignore the new sensation entirely. It wasn't pressing.

"Smile for the cameras," Augusta motioned halfheartedly as she stepped out of the car and a rush of hot, dusty wind blew into the interior.

Sam steadied herself before getting out of the automobile – and instantly flashbulbs snapped and live feeds began rolling. A dozen microphones held by suspension floated above and around the two tributes as Augusta cleared a path to the train, getting anything to satisfy the insatiable hunger for entertainment demanded by the far-away Capitol denizens. Sam blinked and squinted against the attention and fanfare; this was not something she enjoyed, and her face reflected anything but the strength and power so craved by wealthy sponsors of the Games and viewers everywhere. Compared to Laredo, who strode with a sense of purpose in long, measured steps and a head held high, Sam appeared as fodder headed for the slaughterhouse.

The train loomed like a sleek, silver stallion before the run-down station. Its contrasts with the wind-swept prairie of District 10 were evident immediately in the mechanical prowess presented by the lean locomotive; its design built as a shrine to Capitol extravagance and economic strength. Augusta smiled at the return of the civilized tastes of fine living; it sure beat the dusty end of the road that was this outlying dirtball.

"The fastest transportation you'll see in Panem," Augusta gloated, exemplifying her acute lack of empathy for the tributes and their predicament. "It can go from District 12 to the Capitol in under two days. From here, we'll be there by tomorrow midday."

She hustled the two tributes onto the train before the cameras; Sam couldn't even manage to get a look through the flashes and lights. With a hiss and a burst of air, the door of the train slid shut – cutting off District 10 and likely her final and last chance to see the one place she had ever called home.

"Come along now, can't dawdle in the hall all day."

Sam noted that Augusta's mood had picked up considerably since leaving the Hall of Justice – or at least the speed in which she talked and acted. All the fancy words couldn't possibly prepare her for the train's interior – and the opulence she had never seen.

Blue, velvet-lined walls rimmed a room that seemed hewn out of silver. Chrome trays of all sorts of colorful edibles and sumptuous-looking sweets tempted Sam's self-control with promises of new and exciting tastes. Cushion-laden chairs invited a comfortable seat, while glimmering chandeliers hanging from the glossy ceiling coated the room in a soft white light. Two foot-wide windows, shaded by tinting agents to keep the unsightly late-morning prairie light out, already gave a view that showed the train's distant departure from District 10 – the border fence on the edge of the cattle grazing fields slowly fell towards the horizon as the journey towards the Games began.

In this sort of setting, the dust of the district that attached itself everywhere had no place.

"Impressive, isn't it? Same sort of impressive like the first time a piglet takes a dump."

Cheyenne could have left the tributes some space as the trip began, but the tobacco-addicted mentor had other plans – namely, insulting anything and everything she could.

"Why are you still here, Augusta? Oh _right_, because nobody here ever wins so you never get to advance to District 4 and sleep with Finnick Odair," Cheyenne rattled on, flicking cigar ash directly onto the formerly-spotless violet carpet. "Not like he would anyway. There's actual big fish in the Capitol."

Augusta responded with a curt scowl that she left no attempt to hide. "I'm going to go invite Dallas in. Maybe we'll have a _civilized_ conversation." She turned with a _hmpf_, trotting away with her lemon-yellow hair bobbing to her steps.

Laredo had apparently not been impressed by the surroundings, despite his poor upbringing – he immediately turned to conversation with Cheyenne rather than standing around hesitantly like Sam.

"So what's the deal?" the muscular boy asked gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning into a wall. "What are you supposed to be doing for me?"

Sam vaguely noticed his use of the singular "me" rather than "us," but the mentor's abrupt reaction took over the spotlight.

"'Doing?' I don't think you understand how that works," Cheyenne flicked ash into a corner, letting loose a tobacco-laced cough and wiping her mouth with the backside of her left hand. "I'm here because the Capitol thinks it's good sport that I show up every year. If you want somebody to hold your hand, maybe you can go get Dallas; he seems to like doing that kind of thing. Ever since he won, the two of us have just watched tribute after tribute die every year. It's status quo, like stinking cow dung and dead grass is back in the district. You think you're gonna change my mind? Prove it."

Laredo considered this prospect momentarily before deciding this was an acceptable proposal. With little fanfare, he swung a quick hook at Cheyenne's head with his right fist. Despite her abrasive demeanor and notoriety amongst District 10 for hostility, Cheyenne was a remarkably quick opponent – that she'd won the Games at all seemed so much more obvious once she began a fight. She ducked from the swing and came up under Laredo's armpit, driving the muscular boy into the wall. Sam shrieked and stepped back as Cheyenne finished the move, sliding behind Laredo and pinning him against her in a headlock. A more competent fighter could have escaped; he had the brawn, but not the experience – and probably not the brains either.

"_What_ do you think you're _doing_?"

Dallas's voice rang out clear and crisp as he and Augusta stepped back into the car, with both staring on in a mix of shock and bafflement. Cheyenne pushed Laredo off of her with a playful shove and tossed a dangerous grin.

"Hands-on training. What are you doing, snarfing scones? You're setting such a poor example," She turned towards Laredo and mocked brushing dirt off her shoulder, closing an eye and visually scanning him from head to toe. "We might just be able to make something out of you. Not like the usual scared twigs we get in here. I gotta get some air, everybody…so damn judgmental. I'll be back at dinner."

With a look of contempt thrown Sam's way – who had avoided the scuffle entirely and pulled back into a corner of the ornate room – Cheyenne stepped into the hall of the next car and let the door slam behind her.

"Barbaric," Augusta sneered at her retreating form, adjusting the arms of her bright clothing. "Is this how you settle personal disputes all the time, Dallas?"

"Let's try to forget that ever happened," Dallas lamented with a look of exasperation, running a hand through his tussled blonde hair. He turned his attention to the two tributes again, getting his first close look at who he'd be working with.

"I don't know if either of you know me – Laredo, Samantha," he nodded at the two before slumping into a nearby chair. "But there's going to be Reapings all day, since our district's one of the earlier ones. 1, 6, 8, and 11 have already gone by now, but that still leaves a lot to come. That's the best chance to get an early look at your competition – and we've got plenty of time to start figuring out what's the best way to approach this."

_At least one of the mentors wasn't_ _an aggressive lunatic_, Sam thought as she took her place on a couch as Augusta flicked a screen on to the Capitol's Hunger Games coverage. Still, with a first impression like that, how could she figure these people would help her out? And with a fellow tribute apparently ready to start snapping necks at a moment's notice, what chance did she have?


	5. Tributes and Stars

_**A/N: Thanks for the kind words, caramellachoco! Appreciate all reviews that can help me get better.**_

Names, faces, tears, and children turned with the passage of time over the course of the train ride and the afternoon as scenery of Panem flew by. Sam felt numb as district after district gave away a part of their future two at a time, watching sons and daughters depart with little to no chance at the prospect of return for the most part. Some came old enough to be starting real work in their home regions, with the experience to have a shot at contention; some young and frail enough to look like day-one outs at the hands of a tribute bloodthirsty enough to slaughter without remorse. Throughout the coverage of the Reapings, entertainer Constantine Flickerman's voice gave life to the backgrounds and prospects of the children who would face off in whatever horrors the awaiting arena of the Games could provide.

"I remember when I met his father, Caesar, during my Games," Dallas remarked at one point of the showing, helping Sam and Laredo understand the man who would bring the games to the televisions of Panem. "Too loud, but he gave me some credit I didn't think I had. Constantine's done a great job filling in his shoes. He'll give you both a leg up in the eyes of sponsors, no matter what you say."

"_Well_, I hear he's enjoying retirement quite well," Augusta crowed in agreement. "Caesar is an icon. His son is just as skilled – give him some time and he'll be as much a household name. This is only his eighth Games, after all – and already he's found a place in every Capitol citizen's heart."

"He sounds full of himself," Laredo scoffed at the commentator, bored by the proceedings and itching for more action than the train ride could provide.

"The word is _confident_," Augusta corrected.

Several of the tributes stuck out in Sam's mind as she watched quietly, letting Dallas take over with talking. District 1's pair of sleek assassins, a silver-haired vixen named Royal and a copper-skinned boy called Fresco (although Sam took most names from other Districts to be odd – she figured even her own district's came across the same way to them – there was no way anybody could take the nomenclature of District 1's people as anything except abnormal. Royal? Fresco?) The most physically imposing boy Sam had ever seen, a District 2 tribute named Hadrian, stormed up to the stage as a volunteer, overpowering the light from the cameras with his frame. District 4 came in with the oddity of the day; the typically Career district submitted a thin fourteen year-old girl named Gannet who looked better off staying on the fishing boats of the oceanic district. None stepped forward to replace her; the girl's green eyes looked hopelessly on to a field of potential tributes that had let her down.

The "middle" districts that always seemed to grind their wheels in the Hunger Games produced few tributes of note. District 6 produced a very quiet and tall boy named Troop who seemed resigned to his fate, while 8 set forth a hysterical girl named Kevlar who screamed as she was called, forced up to the stage by the unrelenting arms of a Peacekeeper. Finally, the outlying districts came into focus.

Cladius Templesmith, the old yet charismatic announcer for the Games, scrunched his eyes to the Reaping in District 10 as Sam waited for his and Constantine's judgment. The entire train car seemed on edge as the pair analyzed the early event.

"10's been in a bit of a rut recently, haven't they Claudius?" Constantine laughed, adjusting his shoulder-length mint green hair. "Is this the year they're going to break out of that?"

"Difficult to tell," Claudius replied by rubbing his chin, his old voice still clear and passionate despite years of speech. "You see the male tribute here; he's got the look of a powerful one."

Laredo smirked at the assessment.

"You can't really get a good grasp of these things from the Reaping alone, but I'd wager on a fair chance from them. The outlying districts, they're never going to be favorites – but you never know with these things, they could be set for a surprise."

"That's better than nothing," Dallas nodded to Claudius's analysis. "He can't get into too much detail as to skew the betting pools that always shake up in the Games, but he sounded at least optimistic. Gave you some praise, too, Laredo – can't underestimate what every word means to a sponsor."

"That's your job, right though?" Laredo tossed his head in Dallas's direction. "Get sponsors? Send in supplies?"

"Yeah, but if Claudius wants to make my job easier, I'm all for it. You should be, too."

"Whoa now, I ain't complainin'," Laredo smiled, flexing a bicep. "I'll give you a good score to toss around with them rich folk."

Dallas looked Sam's way as the girl sat quietly through the proceedings. "Sam? You've been quiet ever since you got on the train."

The former victor had seen this type of tribute before – the one who still sat in shock from being picked even after hours of train ride; who needed some shaking up to get their head in the game. Sam reminded him of many of the tributes who'd passed by he and Cheyenne's way, picked only to be swallowed up by the ferocity of the Games. It always hurt, but nearly twenty years of this had hardened Dallas's skin against getting too attached – and although he'd give everything he had to help Sam out, privately he didn't feel as if she was great material to come out swinging, even this early in the occasion. She had enough physical charm for stylists to make something of, and maybe enough cute naïveté to win over one or two sponsors – but getting a top training score and smashing the interview were things that it looked like Laredo had the early and obvious edge in.

"It's just some of these other kids," Sam answered truthfully, resting her head on her hands as a dark-haired, olive-skinned boy from District 12 named Storm concluded the tribute list. "Like that guy from 2. How do we beat someone like him?"

"Who's 'we?'" Laredo fired a look her direction, his eyebrows showing amusement.

"Us. You and me. District 10," Sam replied with a perplexed look.

"Dunno what you're talking 'bout. Just one person coming out of that arena."

Dallas ignored Laredo. "They're big, but sometimes the Careers take things too straightforward – relying on food that's provided rather than scrounging and surviving, or missing subtle clues on how the arena's laid out. With someone like Hadrian there, you've got a better chance if you can out-think him and use the environment to your advantage. Play smarter, not harder."

Sam caught his advice, but her attention had been drawn by her fellow tribute. Laredo's words spooked something deep inside her – that she knew that now she was alone. Whatever she'd felt before, she had at least figured Laredo and her were both from the same district and could work out a mutual plan to stay alive for the early parts of the Games; maybe even outlast some of the others. His thoughts proved otherwise: if she wanted some help, she'd have to make a friend with someone from the other districts.

And making friends was far from her best skill.

"To all you viewers, we've got a special treat," Constantine was saying as Sam mulled over the circumstances. "Our second-year Head Gamesmaker himself, Phaeston Rex, is here in the studio to give his take on what we saw on day 1 of the 98th Games – Phaeston, a pleasure."

In his inaugural year, Phaeston Rex had never shown himself on camera – and in Sam's first look at her de facto executioner, she felt both shock and a creeping dread. Rex lacked the colorful hair of the types like Augusta and Constantine, and bore no skin alterations or strange stylistic markings across his body. His hair remained a shiny, slick slice of silver – complementing his rounded facial features in a natural way. In fact, for a Capitol citizen he looked positively _normal_ – except for one trait that worked its way so deeply into Sam's soul that she nearly gasped.

The Gamesmaker's eyes shone with a radiance like the stars at night – not with the same calm and tranquility as each of those shining points of light, but with an artificial three spokes of bright blue that bored a hole straight through the television screen. He seemed to look _through_ the camera, straight into Sam, and his words emphasized the unnerving aspect of his gaze.

"The pleasure is _all_ mine," Rex shook Constantine's hand with little vigor, his eyes maintaining their stony radiance.

"Now, I know you can't tell us anything about the arena itself even though we're all _dying_ to know," Constantine laughed brightly at the poor pun, his photogenic face the perfect foil for the icy demeanor of Rex. "But let's get to the Reapings today. What's your early take on how things shake out?"

"They are an unconventional set for an unconventional year," Rex grinned ever so slightly, placing the fingertips of his hands together as if presiding over some master scheme. "You can point out some novelties from this group. District 4's lack of a volunteer on their female side is…_curious_ at best, but it does shake up the typical heavyweight competition."

"Absolutely, I was shocked no one leaped into the fray," Constantine nodded quickly.

"Additionally, a close relative from any former victor is always intriguing – especially from an outlying district. The odds may be…_evened_ somewhat this year."

"I noticed that, Phaeston. For our viewers who didn't catch that during District 12's broadcast or recap," Constnatine dove into full analysis mode. "12's male tribute, Storm Hawthorne, is the nephew of 78th Hunger Games winner Rory Hawthorne. We have a family connection this year."

Dallas looked up, having missed that announcement earlier. "Year before me; I remember watching that one. I've spoken often with Rory during our time in the Capitol. I hope he's going to handle this alright."

Sam felt a twinge of pain for whoever this Rory Hawthorne victor was – going in as a tribute to the Games was bad enough, and a mentor likely faced even more pain year after year of deaths. But having to mentor a family member? She didn't feel as if she could imagine a worse fate, especially from a region like District 12 that represented even worse poverty and grit than did the likes of District 10.

"Now, you've made your mark last year in spicing up the Games with certain flair," Constantine turned his attention on the screen back to Rex. "How would you describe that yourself? Your personal style, your touch?"

"I bring outside-the-box creativity and ambition to a familiar situation," Rex seemed fully in control now, hitting his stride in the interview with each powerful, well-measured word. "Where the Games may have stagnated in times past, my flavor has been one of…_originality_."

"What's he mean by that?" Sam looked up at Dallas, worry filling her gut. Whatever "originality" meant from the creepy Head Gamesmaker, it didn't sound charming...or at all promising.

"We'll talk it over at dinner," Dallas rebuffed the question, glancing over at a clock on the wall.

"Yes, yes," Augusta perked up, having remained quiet through much of the later Reapings. "Go, you two, make yourselves presentable and tidy up. Dinner will be in an hour in the car to our left – your rooms are two cars down for yours, Laredo, and three for yours, Samantha."

Sam's room shared much of the same glamor as the lounge car, with a full, soft bed larger than anything she had seen even amongst the well-to-do like her family in District 10. A bathroom inlaid with chrome and marble radiated luxury, with a shower surrounded by granite walls and a glass sliding door that immediately secured Sam's attention. Nobody had showers in District 10, even the comparatively wealthy such as the Parkers – well, maybe Mayor Navarro did, but certainly nobody else. Sam spent a full five minutes simply looking over the options on the shower buttons – from foams to water pressure and temperature to soap scents. Was this really all the Capitol had to do with their wealth? Buy shower scents?

Sam's mind floated back to Clay and his poor family, with him having to take out tesserae every year to do his part in supporting them – just a little of the resources that paid for this shower alone likely could have supported him and his family with food for a month, or more! The luxury was great – and Sam certainly was not one to pass up the opportunity when afforded – but the sickening waste of it all was disturbing, to say the least.

Still, Sam contently spent nearly a half hour in the shower, doling out copious amounts of scented shampoos until she emerged as an amalgamation of sweet and flowery aromas.

She lost her Reaping outfit for a simple violet short-sleeved shirt and a pair of comfortable pants; no need to make an impression on anybody here. To Sam, the battle lines were already drawn for the members of the train. Augusta was no help to anybody but herself; Laredo was much the same, except he'd have the chance to kill off Sam inside the arena and certainly had the physical tools to do so. Cheyenne…was an enigma, albeit an extremely unpleasant one. Dallas provided the only spark of commitment, of the slightest bit of hope that Sam could pick up anything useful between now and the horn that sounded the start of the Games around the Cornucopia several days from now. She'd need to get him on her side no matter the cost – to ensure she had something of a supply route from sponsors, if any wanted to show her favor.

Dinner went surprisingly well, although the group never ended up finishing the discussion over the Head Gamesmaker. Cheyenne managed to stay civil through two courses of rich foods Sam had never seen the likes of before offending Augusta by taking painkillers in plain sight, leading to an argument that ended in Augusta's early retirement for the evening. Sam could already see that the mentors and tributes were dividing into "camps" – Cheyenne outwardly preferred Laredo's brawn to Sam's quieter approach, while Dallas patiently answered questions and responded with as much as he could. Sam valued that she could harness one connection – but her hopes of balancing her apprehension in the coming days with a fellow district tribute of like-mindedness were all but dashed. Laredo looked too much the part of the physically tough brute who would cut his way through opposition regardless of the cost – whatever he had done in his childhood to get that way, Sam figured she'd end up on the wrong side by trying to get along with it.

"Breakfast at 8 tomorrow," Dallas motioned as an end to dinner as he and Cheyenne cleared out. "We're going to be coming into the Capitol in the late morning. If either of you have any last questions before we get there, think of them tonight and ask us tomorrow."

"Ask him," Cheyenne muttered as she left. "I'm not a morning person."

The two mentors departed, leaving the pair of tributes alone in the dining car. Sam picked at a napkin as Laredo glanced about, contemplating leaving – which he soon did.

"I guess," Sam tried a final time. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Laredo looked over his shoulder at her, said nothing, and departed.

That was that.

Sam sighed and left for her room, but sleep was not to come. She changed into a lavender night gown, but spent the next hour tossing and turning, watching out her window rather than getting the rest she needed. Had it only been around half a day since boarding the train? The rush of the day's events and the confrontation with fate had left Sam feeling as if she'd walked several dozen miles. She flipped and turned in the soft bed, disregarding the luxurious comforts of her surroundings for the millions of thoughts racing through her mind. With a start, she tossed off the bed sheet and got up – looking for somewhere, anywhere, to truly be alone.

The timepiece on the hallway wall read half past midnight, but Sam didn't care. She stumbled through the dark car, walking further and further towards the rear. The final car of the train was exactly what she was looking for – a glassed-in coach with soft couches and plush chairs; it starkly reminded Sam of home. The ceiling above shone with constellations and an eggshell crescent moon. Sam took a seat on the rearmost couch, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms about her legs.

Maybe Cheyenne had a point. For all the intricacies and luxuries of the Capitol – no matter how exquisite their showers were – everything about the train felt wrong. To be surrounded by technology, by wealth, by the best that Panem could by…yet to have all that in exchange for hurtling towards death by entertainment? What was the point of all the luxury, then?

_Back of the drinking dipper, then three fingers up_, Sam thought, reviewing the last night she had with her brother, finding the North Star – was that just the previous night? She held out her hand, picking out the constellation and then tracking the stars across the sky as the train hurtled along – right on cue, the North Star. It had been the first one she'd learned from her brother, the one she'd always remembered could point her towards home. District 10...the only home she'd ever known lay far across the open expanse of plains and grasslands. Somewhere far behind was District 10, where Jake would be going to sleep knowing he could do no more, where Clara and Clay would have to be strong for each other as they watched her efforts to survive in the Games. Where her father never even realized what he could have meant to her.

_If tears are going to come, come now_. Yet no tears flowed from Sam's red-streaked eyes, tired from a day of fear and anxiety. There was nothing more to be done, no last wishes to be had. The Games had just begun, but her game, the great game she had called life, had turned the page to its epilogue. No more needed to be said; only the rest remained to be read.

Watched over by the friendly night sky, somewhere far between the districts of that place called Panem, Sam fell asleep – safe under the stars for one last night.


	6. Eye of the Hurricane

"_So_, we're going to be getting into the Capitol today; once we all debark, you two will be sent off to your stylists in preparation for tonight's _brilliant_ opening ceremonies parade. While you're there, don't forget that they know the specifications of…"

Sam tried to pay attention to what Augusta blabbed on about over breakfast, but found herself more interested in rubbing sleep out of her eyes and trying new beverage concoctions than listening to word after word about "glamorous stylists." Where was the fun in that, anyway? Picking over cranberry juice – good luck getting that in District 10 – secured Sam's attention much more in revealing exciting new sensations to her taste buds. Sweet rolls, buttery custards, slices of pink meats, and bright, tropical fruits served over bowls of ice comprised a breakfast that mad up for the lack of sufficient sleep the night before.

"We're actually ahead of schedule," Augusta finished her sermon, pulling out a gray metal tablet sporting an interactive electronic screen that she frantically dabbed away at. "We'll be pulling into the station in under an hour…now if only your other _mentor_ would show up to join us."

Cheyenne had, as seemed to be the standard, failed to arrive at breakfast on time. To Sam, that made things far better than the alternative – Laredo appeared subdued without her to goad things along, and Dallas and Augusta shared a good back-and-forth rapport. The Capitol escort's clothing was another matter. To complement Augusta's already hideous lemon-yellow hair, a tangerine-orange outfit that hung to just above her knees contrasted her light blue skin and shocking hair like a bad sibling.

"So," Dallas turned to Sam and Laredo, letting the pleasantries end. "Did either of you have any final questions or things to think about? Once we pull in, Cheyenne and I aren't going to be able to talk with either of you until the opening ceremonies are over, by which time things will be speeding along."

"So what's the gameplan?" Laredo barked out between bites as he inhaled a slab of ham. "How do I play training, interviews, all that?"

"We'll figure that out once we see what the stylists have for you two," Dallas held out his hands as if motioning to slow things down. "Then we'll all have a better idea of how the crowd's gonna see it and where we can go from there. That's a good point, though – do either of you have any sort of skills you know off the bat are gonna help you inside the arena? That you have down pat?"

"Just go for the weapons, right?" Laredo smirked.

"If you wanna get killed maybe. The Cornucopia's an invitation to a quick death."

"So what do we do there?" Sam looked up from her plate. Laredo had conveniently given her a good in to picking Dallas's brain on survival tactics.

"Grab whatever's ten feet around you at most, and then hightail it," Dallas answered patiently. At least Sam had figured she needed some information to have a chance. "Any further towards the Cornucopia and you're risking not making it out of there alive. The Careers will have it on lock-down – so weapons are probably a no-go for the most part. Are you good with anything else?"

"I'm okay with a rope," Sam figured she could try to impress with one skill, if nothing else. "It's everyday stuff for herding cattle back home."

Dallas nodded, taking a bite of a scone. "Don't underestimate that kind of thing. If you get lucky in an environment like a forest or woods, a rope can let you make your own tools, weapons, shelter, you name it. Something like that can usually be found on the perimeter of the Cornucopia as well. It's all about using what you have, rather than relying on getting what you don't."

Sam wasn't done with questions, however; she wanted to know as much as possible. The realization that she didn't have much of a chance had settled, but she figured she could at least put up as much of a fight as she could before going down. Anything less would be giving up right now. "You mentioned yesterday you were gonna talk about the Gamesmaker…"

"Yea, why's he sound so creepy?" Laredo piped in, shocking Sam that her fellow tribute had actually given her credit for a question.

"'Cuz he's a freakin' sadist."

Right on cue, Cheyenne finally moseyed her way into the dining car to Augusta's admonishments, slumping down in a chair and grabbing buns. Sam shifted to her right; the mentor reeked of tobacco.

"_That_ is _rude_," Augusta nearly yelled at Cheyenne, startling Sam with her animation. "And where have you been? We're nearly at the Capitol!"

"I was just waiting for you to finish getting dressed," Cheyenne sneered back at the escort's flamboyant choice of clothing.

Dallas headed the argument off before it got worse. "_Anyway_, the Gamesmaker, Rex, tends not to like _natural _deaths in the arena – at least the conventional ones that usually get at least one tribute, like dehydration, sickness, or hypothermia. The guy he replaced, man named Seneca Crane who had been around for a long time, got canned for the 'repetitiveness' of his works and Rex took over last year. I don't know if either of you really remember last year's outing…"

Sam did – the same one she'd recalled before the Reaping, the one where the Careers had made hash of the other tributes before tearing at each other. It had been an uncompetitive affair, but a lot of blood had been spilled over the snowy terrain that made up the arena of the 97th Hunger Games. One particular tribute, the boy from District 4, had shredded three of his fellow Careers by himself with a harpoon after their alliance had fractured near the end before being taken down.

"He's a big fan of you killing off each other," Cheyenne broke in with her mouth full of biscuit. "If you don't, he will."

"Phaeston used to chair the Capitol's science and research department," Augusta added, feeling that bit of trivia necessary. "Not many stepped up after Seneca's firing. He was an unusual choice, but brought his scientific insight into the construction and orchestration of the Games."

"In short, he's high on mutts," Dallas confirmed. "Anything from happy little ones like tracker jackers to things that will rip you apart in seconds. He probably figured out half of them himself. Rex's personal goal he expressed when hired was to not go more than a day without a new death. He's ambitious and likes to play fast with the rules. Stocks the Cornucopia with an overabundance of every type of weapon there is – that's part of why it's so bad to go into that trap. The Careers will quickly be able to find whatever suits their taste. Rex's strategy favors them heavily in the beginning."

"Why just the beginning?" Sam posed, looking for an opening.

"Because if you can survive whatever he throws at you and they do, you've got a chance at outlasting the Careers. They don't do so good when their food runs out, and I've got a hunch that Rex will be looking to spice things up after last year's one-sided affair - which is good for you guys."

"So get to somewhere defensible?" Sam countered, thinking things through. What she lacked in physical brawn, Jake had been correct in one area – she didn't lack for smarts. "Just stay alert and moving around an area?"

Cheyenne set down her biscuit and looked her straight in the eye for the first time, trying to get a better look at the tribute she'd dismissed – perhaps prematurely. "You have a brain to go with a pretty face?"

"I guess?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Then yes," Cheyenne looked back to her half-eaten plate. "Maybe you won't die right away. If you sit in one spot, people in the audience get bored and Rex chucks a mutt at you or diverts a Career your way. On the other hand, if you try to get to know the whole arena, you'll end up not knowing any of it."

Sam felt a leap of hope. The malcontent mentor had actually given her a compliment – and while that wasn't much, she'd take whatever she could get at this point. Underneath her aggressive, abrasive interior, Cheyenne seemed to hold a sharp, keen mind for tactics. After all, she'd won the 76th Games somehow…and it clearly wasn't by her warm, friendly personality.

"If you've got the sponsors to go with that," Dallas backed up on Cheyenne's words. "You can help push off any issues outside of food or water, as well. Something like a knife or a sheet of plastic can save your life inside the arena. Make them like you, and you've got another weapon. Not quite as blunt as a sword, maybe."

"A sheet of plastic?" Laredo looked skeptical.

"You could use some of the brains to go with the muscles," Cheyenne coughed. "If you get stuck in, say, a dry craphole, that's an easy way to find a little bit of water if you have time. Dig a pit, stick a sheet over it. Wait a while and stick a rock in the middle of the sheet so condensing water can flow down into a container or something. Welcome to science. It's called a solar still. Won't keep you going forever, but it might stop Rex from noticing you dying from dehydration."

Cheyenne successfully shocked the two tributes into silence – she did know more than she was letting on; _much_ more. Suddenly, capturing her favor seemed just as important to Sam as maintaining anything she had with Dallas. While he was certainly the one to go to with anything general, Cheyenne seemed to know what to do and when to do it. Her victor status no longer seemed so strange.

"And _there's_ the Capitol now, right on time," Augusta broke the quiet pallor that had come over the room. "Absolutely magnificent."

Laredo caught a glimpse from his seat at the table, but Sam couldn't help herself but nearly run up to the window. The stories about how it shined in the sun like some great God, about its grandiose construction that struck wonder into first-time visitors – the Capitol was all that and more as the train crossed the mountains. Great geometric buildings sporting white columns radiated power and strength. Long, broad causeways sported hundreds, thousands of people going about their days; from the train, they seemed little pinpricks of color, buzzing like overactive insects between the cars and vehicles that were so ubiquitous to the Capitol, yet so rarely seen by District 10. The sight of the great city, the heartbeat of Panem, sparked a fighter inside Sam's soul. To head home victorious from the Games, to tell Clay and Jake and anyone who would listen about this sight, about the butterflies that leaped about her stomach – she wanted to do it _now_. This wasn't a sight to take in alone.

"Finished building that fancy tower?" Dallas spoke up behind Sam, his question aired at Augusta.

"Oh, yes, several months ago. It stands on the presidential manor itself. Speaking of Phaeston, he was one of the planners of that design – between that and his prior duties and now as Gamesmaker, what _doesn't_ he do? Next he'll succeed President Octavian whenever he decides to retire."

Sam caught what they were referencing – and what quickly stood out as the most magnificent, the most imposing sight amongst all these other wonders of architecture. A gold-plated obelisk rose into the sky like a watchful sentinel over the entire Capitol. The official eagle of the Capitol symbol marked each side of the obelisk. A stylized eye, seemingly designed to symbolize the Capitol's view over Panem itself from this mountain stronghold, lay inlaid into the pinnacle of the obelisk on all four sides. It was an odd choice of art – etched with an eyebrow and two long, curling lines that took the appearance of eyelashes.

"What's the eye thing on top?" Sam looked back to Augusta, puzzled.

"Oh, something the historical society threw up there," Augusta finished off a cup of wine; Sam figured it was probably a little early for alcohol, but maybe things were different here. "Just trivial art, really. It's become somewhat of a fashion statement, though."

It certainly didn't seem that way to Sam. The eye atop the obelisk outshone the entire tower itself – and whatever said "historical society" had intended, it clearly was meant to fly over the heads of the populace.

A wall of black abruptly cut off the grand view, shrouding the entire car in merely the artificial white light from the hanging chandelier. Sam stepped back, turning to the table and feeling like too many sets of eyes were on her.

"This is it, isn't it?" she said, confirming what she already knew.

"Yeah," Dallas nodded, sighing and sitting back in his seat. "Welcome to the Capitol."

The tunnel flared back into light from the outside, but no longer did the train's window shine onto a sky-lit scene of the great city. Outside the train station's interior blossomed like an opening flower, giving rise to hundreds of flocking citizens desperate for a first look at the new tributes to come in.

"It's like a barn," Laredo remarked with a hint of scorn.

"And one of those barnyard animals might sponsor you," Dallas rebuked. "In this case, it's good to tell them what they want to hear."

Sam didn't hear anything of what they were saying, however. The scene overwhelmed her with the sheer scope of it all – that all these people so eagerly wanted to see her arrival, to find her face amongst the millions of others who called this city home. _This_ was the Capitol, these swarming crowds lusting for bloody entertainment. To her shock, it didn't fill her with dread or dismay or pain – on the contrary, seeing all these smiling, giddy expressions waving and shouting her district as the train came to a stop filled Sam with something she'd never figured on feeling after leaving District 10: energy. If only the people of the district could see through her eyes now.

They had come to see _her!_

Truly, the time for preparation was over. The niceties, the initial understandings, they had come to rest. The Hunger Games were officially on, and Sam could see who the real winners were for the first time.


	7. The Machinations of Phaeston Rex

_**A/N: Starting here I'm gonna start introducing other character stories on a limited-time basis. Don't worry, story's still revolving around Sam; she's not going anywhere! Just trying to expand on the flow and bring in people who will be built up over the course of the three stories, as well as give you the chance to see multiple angles of the same events (sort of like the movie with Seneca Crane's shots.) **_

_**And yeah, some of the behind-the-scenes things are inferred due to this being set some time after the books, plus no more President Snow and the fact that we never got a great look into Capitol society. Let me know if you think it's terrible or great or anything in between!**_

_**EDIT: Re-uploading because the format decides not to agree with me...**_

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><p><strong>The Capitol – Games Control Room<strong>

As overseer of the Peacekeepers and strategic leader of the Panem military muscle, Commander Trajan Arterius looked little like a man who wielded excessive power within the Capitol. He stood a diminutive 5'8", with a short crop of brown hair and passive, almost soft brown eyes. He sported few physical alterations besides a gauntlet of tattoos that extended from the neck down, portraying everything from the Panem seal over his chest to rows of delta arrowheads coating each arm. He valued himself as a patient man compared to many of the vanities of Capitol residences – and he had never quite taken to the love of the Hunger Games as they had.

Finding himself inside the Control Room for those very same Games had been an odd affair.

"You wished to see me?" Trajan placed his hands behind the small of his back, raising his chin and staring down from his position atop a flight of stairs at a still, standing figure at the far end of the giant room. Later tonight this place would be full of attendants coordinating the Chariot Parade, but for now only they stood within its brightly-lit blue confines.

"Commander Arterius…yes I did," the figure turned, revealing the placid face and bright, almost electric eyes of Head Gamesmaker Phaeston Rex. Donned in a simple black suit and white undershirt and carrying a glass of bourbon on the rocks, he seemed cut out of another time and place. "Come closer; soon this room will be the envy of Panem."

Trajan couldn't say he trusted this man. Rex's service in the science and research Special Projects Division had been stellar, and his chairing of the branch as a whole even more sound. It was unthinkable that his second Hunger Games would be anything more than spectacular – but he had owned significant flexibility and power in his previous post. Why abandon that?

His flat voice that trended just a note sharp did nothing to ease the tension he conveyed.

Rex maneuvered several controls on the haptic electronic interface, bringing up a three-dimensional rendering of the games arena before turning his face to Trajan. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

The military commander scanned the arena without fanfare. _What did this man want_?

"Were you looking for something specific?" Trajan inquired, always straight to the point.

"Did you watch the Reapings this year, Commander?"

"Of course. We all do."

"I thought so," Rex affirmed, setting the glass down with an audible _clink_. "I spoke to President Octavian about it earlier today; he seemed enthused. Did you, perchance, take note of the Peacekeepers? Your charges?"

"What's wrong with them? They're doing their job, just as they always do," Trajan spoke the words with resentment. Who was he to question the men out there in the districts, enforcing order and keeping stability?

"Doing their jobs, yes…yet one could say maintaining the status quo is what landed Seneca Crane an early retirement. The districts have learned what they can and cannot get away with; what's acceptable, and what's not. They see the Capitol just as the juggernaut it is – a faraway land of a set state of rules. It is no longer the enforcer, but the behemoth."

"I'd watch your words," Trajan warned lightly. "That kind of talk doesn't go over well."

"As you should know, leading the military," Rex smiled, taking another drink and flashing those disturbed eyes. "You _have_ been to the districts, correct? All of them?"

"Not all. The priority ones, yes."

"Then you're greatly missing out on what it means to be in control, Commander. Octavian is young and still getting his feel for power over Panem, but I believe you and I understand the trappings of this nation. We have been around for a while."

Trajan could hardly believe how easily this man tossed about the president's name; it was as if he saw himself as an _equal_. All this for a Head Gamesmaker – what was this about?

"Do you have a point?" Trajan zeroed on.

"Power doesn't come in imposing aircraft or genetically-bred hybrids, Commander. I've personally gotten to know each and every one of your Head Peacekeepers, district by district…learned their ways, understood the cultures out there. It's a different place in each – almost a different country. You see…_power_ is only and ultimately _information_. What I know, what you do not – and we find ourselves at a time when our president in power is a young man with little grasp on the information of running this nation. Yet he concerns himself with these Games – as important as they may or may not be, I think we both know there's undercurrents that cannot be ignored."

"Do you have a proposal, then?" Trajan spoke as neutrally as he could – these were forbidden topics anywhere but a bug-free location, which the Control Room may or may not have been.

Rex gave him an eerie smile, clinking the ice about his glass. "It's our duty as officials to take care of that which Octavian doesn't see. I have my Games…you have your Peacekeepers. Through each, we ensure the security of Panem; do the dirty works that the president may wish to overlook. You're our best military mind and a patriot, as am I; but this game of watching over our districts cannot continue as it always has forever. We need a little…_change_."

"And how do you intend to…enact this?"

"It's not about enacting, Commander. It's about supporting the president by doing what we must to bolster him – and help _Panem_ and our Capitol. The people we see on these streets, they don't understand when things are happening that don't concern them, and there's opportunity there. I want _you_…to perform a simple task, and in turn I'll pull the strings necessary to keep the technology you need to do it flowing into your supplies. Stretch your security network. Not through overt displays and shows of force, but small things – security data networks and spy imaging, central databases of every citizen, and a force of your Peacekeepers who are capable of…doing more than enforcing the peace. In turn, you'll find your funding will accommodate all that and more. The public won't even notice, and you and I will be taking the _first_ step to making a better nation."

"First?" Trajan asked apprehensively. Rex had a mind for political games like this, but what he asked for didn't seem complicated at all – yet the hairs on the back of Trajan's neck stuck up, as if sensing danger.

"I think you and I are destined for a long partnership, Commander," Rex smiled, setting his glass down once more. "I'll make sure the pieces are in place so that Octavian's reign will be just as grand as Snow's; all you have to do is play your part. Now, I have to get back to my Games. Let's let Octavian focus on only what _concerns_ him. It takes more than one to run a country."

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><p><strong>Tribute Preparation Center<strong>

The air inside the Preparation Center had grown decisively colder since Sam had run through a gauntlet of corrections by a trio of perky, talkative stylists. She had just bothered to catch their names – the tall, lanky, orange-skinned man named Venitius, the stubby woman with strawberry hair and ridiculous eyelash extensions named Rana, and the young woman with the purple tattoos over swirls of yellow skin ink named Hippia – but their chirping conversations had barely even recognized Sam as a human being as they painfully plucked hairs and blasted her with streams of water. She would have called it dehumanizing, but that seemed the entire point of the Games themselves.

Dressed only in a blue paper gown and exposed to the sterile air, Sam found herself shivering fast now that she'd been left alone in a personal holding room. The Rana had said they had been off to find their lead stylist, but that had been fifteen minutes ago. The cold of the air raised goosebumps up her arms and caused her to clutch her arms to generate warmth. For her first few hours in the Capitol, Sam sure hadn't had much fun yet.

The door slid open with nary a sound as one of the stranger-looking men Sam had ever seen entered. The newcomer strode in with an air of refined confidence, yet it was his _height_ that stunned her the most – he stood at least 6'6" with a head of cushioned black hair. His skin came off as even odder – a deep shade of blue grew in brightness and lightened as it worked its way from his ankles up across his arms and hands. At his neck it blended into a tan that finally receded into the natural skin that made up the man's face and head – almost as if he'd patterned an ocean and beach across his entire body. His clothes by comparison were spartan; simply a forest green sport jacket over a pair of black pants. For a stylist and with that height, the man had an impressive build – not quite like Laredo or Hadrian, but just as strong-looking as Dallas.

"Samantha," the man spoke with a voice that came off as unnaturally deep for his exotic look. He held out his hand, grabbing Sam's before she had much of a chance to react and shaking vigorously. "I'm Agrippa Liberius, and I'll be your stylist over the course of the Games. Do you go by Sam?"

"I do," she said quietly, letting the shock of his entrance wear off – and feeling very exposed and vulnerable in her weak garment and damp, straightened hair as compared to his look.

"I spoke with your mentor, Dallas, while Rana and the others work with you. I don't know if I should congratulate you or apologize to you for being here, but…" Agrippa looked about, holding his arms wide. "Welcome to the Capitol."

Sam allowed herself a fraction of a smile; for the first Capitol citizen who had spoken to her like a fellow person, he didn't seem half bad.

"I don't remember seeing you last year at the Games," she approached conversation tepidly. "Is this your first year?"

Agrippa allowed himself a look at Sam's appearance as he answered, taking his time to walking about the room and catch different angles. "I did District 11 for the last two years. Probably a reason you didn't see me; some of the other stylists called this a lateral move, but I'd like to think of it as a step up."

"Trying to get to District 1 or 2?"

"Trying to get somewhere I'm happy at," Agrippa countered. "All due respect to District 11, but the primary mentor there, Thresh…he's not much of a conversation."

"What's the painting on your skin?" Sam couldn't help herself from asking; if that was considered bad manners in the Capitol, so be it. The dye obviously couldn't move, but to Sam it almost seemed to be swaying with each muscle movement Agrippa made – like some great body of water lapping back and forth.

The stylist smiled, holding out an arm to reveal rippling, curling lines of dark and light amongst the blue. "Bit of a story. I've only been out to District 4 once – the only district I've been to. I saw the waves of the ocean there, the way the people treated the sea not like a tool or just a body of water, but like a friend or family member. It struck me as beautiful, and I consider design – whether it's in clothing, on a canvas, or on any surface in particular – to be art with purpose. I wanted to take a piece of that with me…so I did. I can't think of anywhere closer to my heart to illustrate than right over it."

It immediately struck Sam that she had gotten _extremely _lucky – here stood a man who didn't just design styles, he _believed_ in them. That subtle difference could make or break a sponsor or two if the cards fell in the right direction. "We don't really have any of that out in District 10…just a lot of dirt. You're not planning to use dirt as a theme for the chariots, right?"

Agrippa laughed at Sam's weak attempt at humor. "Well, the traditional costume for 10 has always been the animal theme, or cowboys, but what's life without a little variety?"

"We don't have much of that back home," Sam shrugged. "Variety, I mean."

"I don't know…I think I'll judge that for myself when I get out there."

Sam raised her eyes, looking perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"I'll have to go out to your district for your victory tour six months from now," Agrippa chuckled, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder. He felt…_warm, _and reassuring. As if the blue ocean written over his hand sent a gust of the prairie wind from back in District 10 rippling through her body, spreading out and giving some hope. If nobody else in this lonely place filled with strange people believed in her, at least her stylist – who she hadn't even known for ten minutes – did.

"Anyway," Agrippa continued, getting down to business. "My fellow stylist and I – her name's Gnaia, she's working on your fellow tribute, Laredo – have come up with something a little different for this year for you two. We don't want you to emphasize so much as _what_ your district does – after all, you're still young, and making you look like a cow would be a disservice. We want the nation to remember _where_ you're from."

Sam didn't understand at all how this would help. "So, what, grass? That and dirt is about all we have."

"No," Agrippa answered, letting his hazel eyes fall directly into her bright blue ones as he captured everything that needed to be known with a gaze. "Tonight, Sam, you're going to fly."


	8. Taking Flight

_**A/N: Shout out and thanks to all of you guys still reading through chapter 8! Feedback on this chapter would be majorly appreciated - it's somewhat of a turning point, so I'd like to see how you all felt and where you think I can approve on up to here. Also, I added some flair to the chariot parade - tried for more of an Olympics/Super Bowl feel, since I felt there wasn't enough electricity in the movie/book. Lemme know what you think on that, Sam's costume, how much so-and-so character is a raging demon, or anything. Thanks guys!**_

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><p>Several hours later, Sam found herself dressed up to the shoulders in one of the more...mysterious costumes she'd remembered in recent Hunger Games history. In comparison with the usual cowboygirl attire that had grown stagnant and dull, Agrippa and Gnaia had seemingly outdone District 10's tradition. The actual tunic and dress that covered most of Sam's body from the shoulders to the knees appeared almost drab and plain – indeed, it seemed like a mistake; with a mixture of greens, browns, and blues in an abstract pattern that resembled nothing in particular. The multilayer cape that hung off the dress and came like streamers out of Sam's stylized, wavy, dark hair contrasted this with an almost transparent look; only small flecks of white and grey intermingled here and there showed notable contrast. Sam's head, apart from that, had been left entirely alone, and the half-ankle boots she loosely wore looked in very real danger of falling off.

"So, what's the imagery behind all this again?" Sam asked hesitantly. Agrippa had held back the meaning of it all as he and the prep team had dressed her in the entirety of the outfit; now, Sam began to question the artistic merit she'd attributed to her stylist earlier in the day.

A few meters away, Laredo looked equally perplexed. His outfit mirrored Sam's, with the exception of coming in a toga-like form rather than the long, billowy dress. He lacked the hair ribbons, exchanging them for an added layer of cape that frayed off into multiple strands. From Sam's perspective he looked ridiculous; she figured she must have seemed the same, if not more so.

"Gnaia and I went high-tech," Agrippa assured the girl as he adjusted final alterations. "Every bit of the outfit has microscopic ferrofluids that activate and deactivate in patterns to magnets built into the fabric. When we get down there, the two of us will activate them long enough for the Parade and ceremonies – through them, your dress, boots, and even your hair are going to feel a little…different."

"What do you mean by different?" Sam inquired, alarmed. _Please don't let this guy by screwing _all_ my chances…what little they are…_

"It's going to be moving, flowing, like a river," her stylist picked thin, slender fingers through her hair, talking and attending to the last of his work simultaneously. "You're not a cowgirl, or a cow, or even a field._ You _are the wind."

_That's not the first thing I would have thought for our district,_ Sam thought, figuring she'd have better odds if she shut up and let Agrippa finish his work. _Then again, who the heck in the Capitol knows where District 10 even is?_

Agrippa moved into the oddest stage, and what Sam figured was the last. Taking a brush from a tray of viscous white fluid, he applied long, broad strokes to Sam's arms, tanned from long hours in the sun back in District 10. Rather than match her skin to the color of the dress – or even lighten it – the solution left a clear, sticky sensation behind, with a faint smell of new grass and fresh growth. Agrippa had succeeded in leaving Sam completely perplexed.

"You two," a cheery voice perked up. "Look _marvelous_."

Without either mentor in tow, Augusta embraced a brighter tone as she waltzed into the preparation area. "Agrippa, Gnaia, it's _time!_"

The sing-song voice of the Capitol escort sickened Sam's already-nervous guts, but Agrippa placed his hand in hers, pulling her ever-so-slightly towards the elevator. Her feet moved as if in a trance – out there, in just a few minutes, the entire Capitol would be seeing her for the _real_ first time. Frankly, she'd be seeing herself, as well; whatever Agrippa had done, it apparently would not show until the time was right.

"I'm _so_ excited," Augusta exhumed as she, Laredo, Sam, and the two stylists entered the elevator and closed the doors. "Don't you all just feel the energy? I think this is the spirit that really brings us together in the Games."

Laredo smirked behind her back, and Sam for once couldn't help but smile at his response. Augusta really was ridiculous; for all her combativeness with Cheyenne, she exemplified the average Capitol attitude with gusto. To her, the 98th Hunger Games shone with pageantry and trumpets. To Sam and Laredo, it reflected the color of blood.

But now was not the time for reminiscing on morality; now was the time for first impressions.

Sam gasped at the scene of the Remake Center's floor level – with twelve chariots, twenty-four horses, and the sheer number of tributes, mentors, and associated personnel. _Here was the competition_. Tonight, she'd not only have to compete with them for looks; she'd have to win hearts and minds. For the two District 1 tributes in their silver-and-sapphire outfits, adorned like beacons from the heavens, that would be easy – but if Agrippa hadn't come through for her, Sam would already be facing an uphill battle.

"You're getting some _attention_," Augusta laughed softly, her tinkling noise underscoring the situation Sam saw.

There he was – Hadrian, the titan from 2, looking on Laredo and Sam as if he'd just seen a comedy routine. Adorned in violet and crimson and donning a headdress with vertically-aligned feathers, he rose like a primeval god of war – and to his eyes, or at least from what Sam gleaned of them, his District 10 competition had fallen quite short. He wasn't alone; the tall boy from 6 (Sam quickly recalled his name, Troop, from the Reapings) took two quick glances at the pair before rolling his eyes.

_Not a good sign…_

"Agrippa, are you _sure_ this is going to work?" Sam pleaded, looking around at the glittering pair from District 4 and gritting her teeth as the lead districts began climbing into their chariots. "I don't mean to be rude, but…"

Agrippa said nothing; simply motioning for her up into the chariot alongside Laredo. Sam's fellow tribute appeared disgusted – on looks alone, District 10 had been squarely beaten inside the Remake Center so far. The Career districts came through with their usual gloss, while District 7's interesting take on a forest made the two from that chariot seem to grow tall and strong, like evergreen pines reaching for the sun. Even District 9's golden take on grain shimmered with a bright and affectionate glow, sure to capture a few hearts.

"It will now," the stylist smiled, pulling out a small, gray device from his pocket as Sam stood uncertainly on the chariot. "You're going to feel a little shock; don't worry. All part of the plan."

With a blue spark, Agrippa lightly touched the dress just once, eliciting a yelp of surprise from Sam and the turning of several heads in the Remake Center. She looked down as he passed the shocking object to Gnaia, and at once realized his plan. _The entire garment was alive!_ Sam's hair felt as if it had thrown aside its weight, like she'd been tossed onto a plain in the midst of a spring breeze. Pricks of pressure shot across her entire body, and her boots had stiffened into a sharp curve, accentuating her legs and the bottom of the dress. She reached a hand up to touch her hair, but Agrippa held her back before she could.

"No, leave it," he instructed. "It's working by a looping electric charge. Just focus on what you have to do now, Sam – head up, look like you want to make eye contact with everyone in the crowd. Like you're proud to be here – like you're _going to win_."

Sam flipped a look back at the two chariots behind her – the two from 11 still chatted with their respective stylists, but she had commanded the attention of the boy from 12. 12 – he was the legacy tribute; the one Constantine Flickerman had said the previous day came from a family well-versed in the Games. His gray eyes stared straight back at Sam; his dark, straight hair and olive-skinned face done no favors by the tired coal mining outfit that adorned his body. Sam felt a chill go up her spine as she let her eyes linger a second too long, pulling them back to her feet and shaking her head. He was just a kid from District 12. He'd be dead within the opening minutes, probably gored by Hadrian or speared by Fresco.

_12 never wins anything…just like 10_.

"Might wanna wake up."

Laredo's leisurely gaze caught Sam's return to reality as she shook off the nagging doubts. He laughed to himself before looking away, but Sam focused on him was a picture in motion – a work of art, a fluid wave of air atop the chariot and by her side. The cape that flowed off his back and waist flitted and flocked with spots of white, like the flying seeds of dandelions in the April prairie wind. The toga Laredo wore shimmered with lines of tan and white along a blue background that recessed into a green horizon at the hip. He was not from District 10 – he _was_ District 10, the wind on the plains that rode down like a friendly train from the hills. Did _she_ look like that? That…subtle, graceful power?

"_Tonight, Sam, you're going to fly_."

Agrippa's words from hours earlier raced through her head just in time for the great doors at the end of the Remake Center's stable opened to the chorus of one hundred thousand chants.

"Eye contact, head up! A smile doesn't hurt!" Agrippa shouted as the procession began to move.

Sam nodded a quick assent, but concentrated only on closing her gaping mouth at first. As the two white horses leading District 10's chariot took their first steps, her heart accelerated to racing speed. The music of the Capitol infected her blood, dancing about her nerves and driving her stomach into cartwheels with each blast of a trumpet or crash of cymbals. The Capitol crowd surged in voice and motion like a great wave, exploding into ecstasy as District 1 emerged from the Remake Center.

"I'm a little nervous," Sam said out loud to no one in particular – an understatement on the most extreme of magnitudes. She felt as if she'd been dipped into a vat of butterflies.

"Good time to be," Laredo mused. "But thirty minutes and this little song and dance is over."

_How's he do that?_ Sam wondered as District 4 emerged into the open night to the screams of Capitol fans, the corner of her eyes lingering on Laredo's robust face. _That nonchalance, the apathy…what's that secret? Where's that come from in District 10? About to put everything before the largest crowd either had seen, and he seemed more interested in dinner.  
><em>

She had little time to wonder. All too quickly, the two white horses of their chariot lurched forth into the orange-hued urban night, and a collective_ Oooh!_ rippled like a river through the crowd. It wasn't shock, or even dismay – it was delight. Sam momentarily caught herself in the act of shying away from the attention, forcing herself to come together._ Head up, eyes high – smile! This is no time to be shy!_

For the first time in the Capitol, Sam felt _wanted_. These people who screamed out "District 10!" had never as much as given the prairie district a chance, yet tonight they stood amazed by the work of the two stylists. Sam let her eyes travel up to the banners that changed to show each tribute in passing – and nearly recoiled in shock and delight.

Agrippa had transformed her into a celestial deity of the sky. She wielded the winds and the storms, her blue eyes twinkling like the night stars back home. Her tanned arms had become rippling currents of energy that flowed into the dress and the cape, swirling together as a great stream of air and light into each and every viewer across Panem. Her hair rose away from her head and spoke of darkness – of sparks of light intertwined with a sovereign tide of power that spoke of a girl who refused to stand aside for any tribute.

_Smile more, you idiot_.

Rather than put on a girly, bright beam, Sam forced herself into a sly and strong grin. _Use what Agrippa gave you_. The crowd loved it – the countenance of her figure, born of radiance prepared to destroy. Several roses and assorted flowers fell behind the District 10 chariot, lighting Sam up with hope. Her stylist hadn't failed her – he'd given her a weapon she didn't even know she had.

_Tonight, I am flying_.

Sam tracked her gaze up to the urban sky that shrouded the starry landscape above. Somewhere up there lay the drinking dipper of stars, its tail leading three fingers times three to Polaris, the North Star. No matter if visible or not, she let her twinkling blue eyes lay across the sky – Polaris, which Jake had shown her so many times under the prairie night. Polaris, a sentinel that had watched over two siblings of a wayward region forging an unbreakable bond together - and had seen them torn apart.

_Tonight, District 10, I'm carrying you with me. Tonight, I am that star. For you, Jake - and you, Clara, and Clay. For all that I can never say now.  
><em>

A tear threatened to bead in Sam's eye, forcing her to snap back to the crowd and blink rapidly. Jake would be watching back there in the district, back in that old house, seeing her as she'd never been before – and with the energy of the music, of the horses and the open air and the crowd flowing through her, Sam felt a rebirth since that death she'd accepted before the Hall of Justice. Sometimes a fighter had to be born.

As the chariot rounded into the City Circle, President Octavian stepped up to the podium to welcome the tributes. Sam had seen the young president before, but never like this – so close, so…_lifelike_. Compared to the old leader she had seen during her earlier childhood – the regal and prominent Snow – Octavian looked like a hungry snake let loose over the governance of a nation. He had clearly fed on the enthusiasm of the crowd as his eyes sparked like dots of black fire. The man held his arms wide, accepting the praises of a nation thirsting for this exuberance.

"Thank you!" Octavian boomed, his voice a crack of thunder over the din of the Capitol. "Thank you – and _welcome_, tributes of Panem! Of the twelve districts!"

He cast his eyes down, looking at each and every chariot – and for one sick second that unnerved Sam to the core, his eyes bored down into her from on high.

"_Welcome_, and Happy Hunger Games!" he smiled, just ever so slightly more exaggerated. "And may the odds…be _ever_ in your favor!"

With a booming roar, thirteen Capitol hovercraft shot over the City Center, leading from the Training Center towards the Remake Center before curling up and away. Twelve left behind crimson trails of vapor, while the thirteenth, leading the formation and aligned in the middle, unloosed a straight beam of gold down the center. Fireworks cracked alongside the buildings of the City, shining red and gold explosions of light against the already-bright sky as the Panem anthem thundered out from great speakers. Sam had to hand it to the event planners of the opening ceremonies – they had given the Capitol an unparalleled parade, and managed to slip in a sense of awe into even her.

A golden flame atop the Training Center sprang to life as the tribute chariots began moving again, signaling the end of the opening ceremonies and the beginning of the Games proper. The crowd shrieked in delight to the sheer display of power and strength displayed, responding with a barrage of applause and chants of delight and approval to the events. The smile that had scrawled itself onto Sam's face refused to go away as she took in the great scene, her breathing rapid and shallow in the thin mountain air.

As the chariots began their final lap about the Circle, Sam caught sight of the District 1 tributes – and her heart immediately did a double-take. Royal, the silver-haired lynx from the Reaping, had her eyes bored straight on Sam – unmoving, unflinching. She embodied a lithe and sinewy fortitude that rippled out from the tight and shiny outfit that she wore – and Sam had little trouble interpreting the gaze.

Royal had begun to pick targets – and the giddy girl from District 10 had joined the list.

The Games were on.


	9. Changing Tactics

All of the good will and optimism Sam had built up through the chariot parade disappeared almost immediately at the start of training.

Breakfast on the first day in the Capitol had started amiably enough as Sam and Laredo adapted to their new environment, with its high-tech rooms and appliances. All assortments of food and clothing, whatever either of the tributes could possibly desire or imagine, came waited on hand and foot courtesy of two red-suited Avox attendants. Sam wanted to ask the mysterious servants questions, but her head told her otherwise – their complete lack of interaction and ability to smoothly slip into the background almost unnoticed left an unnerving knot in her head. Clearly, they were _supposed_ to be ignored – and Sam figured she'd be wise to adhere to this unwritten rule.

"I don't care what you're good at right now," Dallas had spoken at breakfast to the two tributes; a meal that, as was expected, came attended by only one mentor. "Learn something new. You're not in front of a crowd except for the other tributes, and they all have to die, right? So do what you can to improve your odds. Sam, you're good at ropes and such, so learn a weapon to give you some punch. Laredo, you're strong, so figure out something mental, like camouflage or building a shelter. Become well-rounded so that nothing tossed your way in the arena catches you unprepared."

Upon changing into red-and-black jumpsuits adorned with patches reading "10" and taking the elevator down to the training center floor, however, Sam knew they were at once outclassed. Well, at least _she_ was outclassed. In the tight uniform, Royal's silky complexion came across as far more lethal and dangerous – the District 1 girl smugly stood with hips askew beside the similarly-dangerous Fresco. Of course, they were Careers – _of course_ they'd be deadly. No real surprise there – and Hadrian, near the two of them, embodied every bit of the muscle that he'd shown from the chariot ride. This close, his mere presence alone - coupled with an expression somewhere between amusement and boredom - intimidated Sam into a grudging respect of what he looked capable of.

Oddly enough in Sam's perspective, Laredo had the build to hold his own. Compared to most of the other male tributes, he carried as much or more bulk than all but the three Career boys. Clearly, he'd have no trouble in physical situations once inside the arena, although Sam hoped that after the cannon fired for the beginning of the Games, she'd never see him again. Killing your own district partner would not be looked kindly upon back in District 10, and the alternative – teaming up with him – was unthinkable. Sam privately doubted he even knew how to find his left foot, and his attitude towards her since the Reaping had not helped the standing between them.

As the head trainer – an unenthusiastic-looking man named Sulla sporting fire-red hair and a bland, flat voice – spoke of basic instructions, Sam let her eyes continue to wander over the tributes, settling on the girl from District 4 – Gannet, that had been her name. She'd been the one from a Career district to have no volunteer step up for her – and looked just the part of a confused, scared kid of only fourteen, failed by a system in a district that should have fixed this situation. As bad as it was in District 10, Sam figured, a kid like her likely would be far worse off if thrown into the Games – with no training and little heed paid in years past, figuring a Career would step forth. Her small stature and diminutive green eyes further downplayed her cause when standing alongside the smug and sturdy boy from 4.

Sam decided she wanted to meet her.

"-and no fighting between any of you," Sulla concluded his spiel as Sam snapped back to the matter at hand. "You can kill each other off as many times as you want inside the arena. Good luck."

Snap off the bat, the five Careers immediately dove for the weapons stations like wolves. As Sam stared around at the different areas to learn, Royal had already picked up a spear. Like a trained gladiator, she hefted it in a single hand and hurled it towards one of the throwing station's target dummies without waiting for the instructor on hand to speak. No reason to – a dead-on hit straight through the gut.

_So she's smart and deadly,_ Sam thought. _Be careful_. A headshot may have been the more glamorous thing to show off with – as Hadrian keenly showed, hacking and decapitating several dummies with a long sword – but Royal smartly hit the largest target while still maintaining deadly accuracy and effectiveness. That combination of thinking and physical prowess already stood Sam's hairs on her neck on edge.

Laredo had heeded Dallas's advice, quickly making a beeline for the edible insects station – a surprise, given that Sam figured he'd move to something physical to show off his brawn. Gannet had moved towards knot-tying – a disappointment, as rope-work was Sam's best skill and something she had no desire to show off in at the expense of learning new material. She'd have to find time to talk to the quiet District 4 tribute later.

_Go learn a weapon that the Careers aren't all over. Learn something, brainless._

Sam settled in at the archery station, manned only so far by the nondescript girl from District 5 and the station instructor. To her dismay, shootings arrows turned out to be a bad choice – Sam showed no real aptitude for the trait. After a half-hour of learning how to shoot and launching wayward projectiles that spat horrifically out of bounds, Sam figured she'd heard and learned enough (or not enough.)

"Try exhaling when you shoot."

The rich male voice snapped Sam out of her shooting stance, forcing her to look about. Leaning on a wall nearby stood the boy from 12 – the one who had his eye on her in the Remake Center before the parade, the one Constantine had gotten excited about. What did he want from _her_?

"I'm sorry?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"When you breath out, it steadies the bow," the boy from 12 replied, picking up a bow off the holding rack and nocking an arrow. "See, watch how I do it."

He effortlessly snapped the bow straight, exhaling softly and letting his shoulders relax. With a snap, the arrow launched forth from the released bowstring like a rocket – zipping through the air and slamming dead-set into the chest target of the closest target. Perfect accuracy, perfect shot.

"You try it," the boy said, setting the bow down. "It gets easier."

"It's not my thing," Sam shook her head. _What did this guy want?_ "Do they teach you to do that in District 12?"

The boy from 12 laughed. "No, not much use shooting coal. It turns into peals when you compress it, though."

"No it doesn't," Sam scoffed, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Those come from things in the ocean."

"Okay, so you're smart. Guess I can't fool you," the boy from 12 shrugged. "Did they teach you that in 10?"

Sam wanted to get to the bottom of this, fast. She assumed she'd be learning things, not being chatted up by some random guy she'd likely never see beyond his kill picture in the sky of the arena. Didn't he have better things to do – like, oh, figure out survival techniques? And where was his district partner, the girl from 12 – shouldn't they be staying together?

_You don't seem too keen on staying with Laredo…_

Sam drummed up some nerve and stared at him in his gray eyes. "Look, is…there something you're looking for?"

"Can't just talk?" the boy from 12 leaned back. "You're the only one being social today, what with those Careers swinging off to each other over at swords and everyone else looking like they're running from a mouse. I'm Storm, by the way. Storm Hawthorne."

"Sam. I'm not exactly thrilled by everyone's impending death either, if that's what you mean."

"Pleased to meet you too, Sam. Couldn't help but notice your costume yesterday…did you think that up and tell your stylists?"

"I don't design clothes," Sam replied bluntly, feeling frustrated with Storm's attempts at conversation.

"Okay, but you still haven't answered my question," Storm smiled, missing the not-so-subtle hints. "What do you do in District 10? I mean, apparently everyone kills each other with swords in District 2 and throws spears at passersby in 1. We've figured you don't do archery, so…"

"We throw trash at pigs," Sam answered smartly, although she'd figured out a dangerous side to Storm – he wasn't at all wasting his time, and she'd played right into his trap. _He's trying to figure out my strengths…prepare himself for the arena. He's a bright one; let's end this now_.

"You're district partner's over on that rope course," Sam nodded towards the District 12 girl, who she'd just noticed and paid attention to for the first time. Nothing to write home about – same sort of olive skin and dark hair as Storm, a little taller and considerably slimmer than Sam herself. Being from a poor district – the poorest – she'd likely never had appropriate meals that someone with relatively decent wealth, such as Sam's family, could afford. "Why don't you go join her?"

"She's kinda…slow," Storm winced. "Not my type. But that's a good idea; why don't you come join me? It'll set us right up for the rope course that'll undoubtedly be in the arena."

_Manipulative stalker_, Sam thought. She wouldn't let herself be played that easily by his mind games. "Think I'll go do something productive, actually. But have fun."

Without waiting for a reply, Sam marched away, fuming. What right did he have interrupting all that she had to figure out in the next three days? And Storm acting like it was some sort of meet-and-greet…everyone but one person was going to die!

_Then again, maybe he's on to something with this chatter…figuring out people's weaknesses isn't a bad idea._

Sam slipped over to the snare station, idly held down only by the girl from District 8 – the hysterical one from the Reaping, Kevlar. From afar, the girl was clearly struggling to accomplish much of anything – 8's history had shown a recent trend of abject failure in the Games, and making textiles in smog-choked fabric likely didn't do much towards shaking Career tributes.

"Hey," Sam moseyed up to the snare station as the instructor took notice of her.

"Hi," Kevlar responded meekly. She clearly lacked confidence – her work showed shoddiness and lack of expertise, and the knots she tried to apply on a snare horribly came apart at the slightest touch.

Sam, on the other hand, found a station where she could thrive. The instructor seemed genuinely pleased at having a pupil who understood basic rope work, and quickly had Sam making basic to moderately-challenging traps out of pieces representing bent saplings, rocks, and other natural obstacles. It was like solving a puzzle – figuring the best way to apply maximum force to a snare without making it seem overtly obvious. Sam smiled in her work – this sort of tactical approach suited her talents and smarts greatly.

"How do you do that?" Kevlar looked over after twenty minutes, as Sam notched another trap and the instructor crowed in assent. "You make it look easy."

This girl from 8 presented no real hazard, unlike Storm – she clearly had no real shot of winning, and her lack of confidence meant she likely didn't even see the advantages of learning another tribute's abilities. Sam figured it wouldn't hurt to share a little with her – the chance it'd come back to bite her in the butt in the arena were minimal. Playing the odds was in her favor here.

"I'm good at knots," Sam lifted her eyes in time to see Laredo smash the head off a dummy with a polearm. _Where did he figure this stuff out back home?_ "Once you figure those out, the rest isn't too hard. Want me to help you?"

Sam played the trump card – and watched it backfire completely. "No, no," Kevlar shied away. "I'll get it…just need a little time."

So much for trying to play friends with that one.

Three hours into training came lunch in the gym's dining hall, as Sam tried to avoid Storm from seeking her out. She figured she'd put enough of a dent into his ego to dissuade him – at least for the day. Besides, she'd been meaning to talk to Gannet, and hadn't found a time to do so yet. Dallas had hinted slightly at forming alliances, referencing the Careers and their ability to do so – which had by no means diminished this year, as the three boys and two girls quickly formed around a table with raucous laughter and loud voices. Gannet had more than just the curiosity factor working for Sam – the girl had lived in a Career district, which could prove strategic knowledge against the dominant heavyweights. It was a smart move to at least _try_ to see if she was receptive to friendly overtures.

Sam loaded up a conservative lunch from the various trays – thinking ahead and picking energy-laced proteins and carbs for the rest of the training day – and found Gannet by herself at a table, like most of the non-Career tributes. Although instinct in Sam told her to ignore the girl and eat quickly – she'd kept her head down back in District 10, and her shy nature had dominated during school years – she forced the feeling back down into her stomach. _Now's not the time to look like a crybaby. C'mon_.

"Is…anybody sitting here?" Sam motioned hesitantly at the table with a nod.

Gannet looked up, and Sam immediately realized she needed to change tactics – the girl's green eyes puffed up with red and a trickle of tears floated down onto her cheeks. The girl sniffed and rubbed her skin before responding: "No…"

Although Gannet, at fourteen, was only a year younger than Sam, the girl from 4 looked far too young to be in the arena. A stable life in a wealthier district kept her from maturing too fast and growing up too quickly – things that may have contributed to a better childhood, but would absolutely rear up like a dragon in the arena. No wonder the Careers didn't want her – she had arrived abjectly terrified.

"I'm Sam. District 10," Sam ventured, taking things as slow as possible. "You're Gannet, right?"

"Yeah," the girl from 4 replied. "I know what you're probably thinking. I should be sitting with them."

She nodded her head at the Career table, where the girl from 2 kept everyone entertained by imitating someone falling off the rope course. _Arrogant snot,_ Sam thought. Laredo should have joined them – he'd fit right in.

"Not really," Sam re-assured her. "Just 'cuz you're from District 4 doesn't mean you have to eat with them. They look like idiots."

Gannet allowed herself a quiet laugh, a soft, tinkling thing. "Cascade didn't even look at me on the train ride in. I don't think I've said more than two things to him. I don't even know if the others know I'm from District 4."

"Is that the boy from your district?" Sam asked, looking to keep her talking. "So he's a jerk?"

"Basically," Gannet affirmed.

Sam took a liking to the young girl already – probably not sound in a survivalist sense, but Gannet really had nothing to hope for in here. At least Laredo kept to himself, despite being thick-headed and lacking any form of tact – Cascade over at the Career table laughed at the jokes of the five tributes with a sneering, grotesque smile. She found him positively revolting – how horrible it must have been to come in with him.

"He'll probably start crying once he runs out of water," Sam joked, trying to keep Gannet's spirits up. She figured she'd found the makings of an early alliance – after all, if she had _any_ hope of getting out of the arena in one piece, she'd need more than simple brainpower and some good knots to do it. Certainly she'd need more than just herself. "Did you know him before…before you came here?"

"I worked on fishing with my family. I heard his father's in administration or something," Gannet stared over at the Careers. "I never talked to him."

"Well, maybe a giant fish will eat him," Sam smiled. "You can take care of that, and he'll only be able to stand there and get swallowed."

Gannet laughed, and Sam felt a surge of pride. If she accomplished nothing else today, she'd managed to strike off on the right foot with another tribute – and that could be far more valuable than shooting arrows or slicing dummies up once she launched into the arena.

Maybe she wasn't so hopeless after all.


	10. Schemes of 10 and 12

"That's a gladius. Short sword, well-rounded, light, good for just about anything. Utilitarian, too – cuts wood just as much as it cuts heads. Stabs, slices, you name it. Better at stabbing than slicing, though."

Sam had performed abysmally at weapons so far – she'd shown a complete lack of aptitude for archery, demonstrated an exercise in futility with spear throwing, and failed in all aspects at throwing knives. Clearly, ranged offense only got one so far; she figured to try a different tactic. Careers had dominated the sword station on the first day, but with most of them spending day two of training moving across the rope course and traversing the Gauntlet, Sam found time to sneak in an attempt at picking up at least some weapons knowledge.

The straight sword she had selected bore a simple and standard design. A number of elegant, curved swords and long, broad blades littered the station with an array of deadly weapons, but Sam figured to start small. After all, she'd found little success so far – might as well begin with the basics. As she walked to the middle of a group of five dummies, the station instructor strolled about the perimeter – eyes grading her positioning, watching her movements.

"Feet just about shoulder-width apart," the instructor commanded, not missing a beat. "Center your balance. Don't hold the weapon with the blade up – you're reducing your reach and ability to defend yourself. Keep the saber at forty-five degrees forward, giving the chance for a parry and a quick stab. The gladius is a _light_ weapon, so speed is your asset here. Don't need to chop a head off to make a kill."

A pair of green eyes fell on Sam as she readied for the next command – Gannet, over at the spear-throwing station. The girl from District 4 had failed to generate any momentum at a weapons station, but she kept her eye on the District 10 tribute who had reached out to her.

"Now, stab!"

Sam jerked forward with the sword, burying the gladius's tip into the dummy's midsection.

"Not so rough," the trainer admonished. "One smooth movement – glide the blade in with strength and control, not just a wild lunge. Again, go!"

The dummy ate the sword this time around – the gladius burying itself beyond the tapered point. Sam pulled the blade out cleanly, allowing herself a smile as the instructor gave a short word of praise. On the next cue, she drove into a slice, taking a limb and finishing with a thrust into the torso.

"That's it, that's it," the trainer approved to Sam's giddiness of finally finding some success with a weapon. It may not have been the heavy blade that Hadrian had whipped about like a whip the previous day, but it was something – and it could more than kill. "You're working well with the smaller blade. Let's try something built more for slashing than stabbing."

The trainer took the straight weapon, hanging it on the wall and handing off a curved, stylized blade to Sam. While still light, this one swished when Sam handled it, knifing through the air like butter and quickly turning and moving about.

"Scimitar. It doesn't stab for nothing, but it'll cut through anything with the right angle and power. Be careful – it's very sharp. It'll go through paper and a car's tires without a hitch. Try wielding it, and when you're ready, have a go at the target – slicing, not stabbing with this one. Controlled, fluid motions."

Sam hefted the next weapon – a good deal heavier, but still well within her physical ability. Wielding the sword came far easier than the other weapons – without a need to throw it or aim, it felt as a natural extension of her arm. On the instructor's cue, Sam swung the weapon in a tight arc – cleaving straight through the arm of one dummy and rounding low to take out another's leg. She smiled with happiness – _finally_, getting something right with a weapon! It was better than nothing, and the failure she'd been having with arms had done its work to dispel her spirits until now.

"Look at you!" a voice came from behind her, back at the station's collection of weapons – a familiar voice. "You just took out…a fake person."

Sam let the scimitar clatter to the ground noisily, turning to the voice. "Storm, what do you _want_?"

"Hey now," the boy from 12 protested with a smile, holding up his hands. "That was a compliment. That guy's dead."

"And that's supposed to make me feel great?" Sam fumed at Storm's incessant snooping about her business.

"No," Storm clarified. "But I want to talk to you. Five minutes and they're going to send us to lunch – let's sit together."

"I'm already sitting with someone else," Sam refuted. "Why do you want to talk to me, anyway?"

"He or she can join us, then," Storm insisted. "And the _why_ is the private part. I'll make it worth your while."

Ten minutes later, Sam had filled a small plate in the dining hall with meat and vegetables, more than prepared to blow Storm off and find Gannet instead. The small girl from District 4 sat alone again at a table – the same place as yesterday, not anticipating company. As Sam moved to take a seat with her, however, Storm cut her off – already on top of the game.

"Is she your friend?" the boy from 12 motioned with a nod.

"Is that a problem?" Sam retorted reproachfully. She had never exercised the defensiveness she felt now – while experience told her to solve conflicts peacefully and negotiate with those she disagreed with, Gannet's frame and innocence compared to the other tributes – and Storm's nonchalant way of addressing anything and everything so far – fired up a burst of anger deep within her.

"Nah…she just looks…familiar," Storm suddenly seemed detached, his eyes staring not at the girl from 4, but beyond her – through the hall table and seemingly off to nowhere. "Not her in particular, just her expression. It's nothing, let's go sit down and I'll tell you what I meant to."

The simple unintended gaze caught Sam by surprise and left her with questions. What had that meant? Gannet's typical expression was one of something between loss and confusion; Sam had attributed that to her unexpected predicament and lack of much hope in the Games. It wasn't far from her own melting pot of feelings, but she'd managed to hide hers better. But Storm…he seemed like a kid who hadn't even minded arriving so far. Everything about his prior mannerisms had spoken of a cool and relaxed air. Yet now he had detached just for a moment and spoken more words than Sam had ever heard from the olive-skinned boy from the coal mining region.

"Gannet, this is Storm," Sam introduced the two tributes from vastly different regions. "I've been talking with him sometimes during training."

"Hi," the diminutive tribute piped up in greeting, unmoving from her seat.

"It's a pleasure," Storm replied, taking the cue from Sam that the two girls were, for all intents and purposes, an unspoken team. He'd need to get them both on his side, and time was running. "I wanted to ask you two something. You notice the Careers? All five of them?"

Gannet looked away – Storm had touched the wrong nerve. Sam furrowed her brow, hissing, "She's from District 4. Not a Career."

"Oh, right. I'm sorry," Storm did his best to quickly apologize. "It's just that…there's five of them, and they're pretty much bigger than any of the rest of us. I don't know if either of you remember last year, but the Career pack ripped everyone else apart. That kid from 2, Hadrian? He's a monster. None of the rest of us are going to be able to stand up to him one-on-one, not to mention with his buddies."

Sam laughed, drawing some eyes from around the room that quickly returned to their platters of food. "You really want a team? After you've been bugging me the last two days? Why would I do that?"

"I thought you two were friends?" Gannet asked, confused by the quick proceedings between the other two.

"Not quite," Sam corrected.

"The guy from 7 – his name's Ash – he and I have worked something out," Storm lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "He's over talking to the girl from 8, Kevlar, trying to work something out. Now, look, I know that's not great odds against them, but if he's successful getting her on board and you two come on with us…that's five of us, and five of them. At least the numbers are even that way, and one of us might stand a chance of going home – and not in a box."

Gannet squeaked out a muffled cry to that last word as Sam broke in to dispel the idea. "And what's going to stop you and your buddy from 7 from killing us off right after we've 'teamed up?'"

"Because…" Storm hesitated, as if choosing his words properly. "Because of you, Sam."

Sam recoiled. "Excuse me?"

Storm let his eyes wander over to Gannet again before drawing closer, so only Sam would hear his plea. As if taking the instruction, the girl from 4 meekly returned to her plate of food, looking dejected as Storm began. "Look, the girl? I've seen that expression too many times to know what it means. Back in District 12, we take more tesserae than any other district besides 11. That look? It's hope, or the lack of it. I've seen the same look in my father's eyes – the same father who lost his best friend to these Games two decades ago, who struggles to feed my family and I with meager pay. That same look is over the starving kids I saw in school who always went to sleep hungry. And you know what? I may have just been bugging you yesterday because you looked pretty on the chariot ride, but I watched you come over and keep her company during yesterday's lunch; something she obviously needed. She's in shock and hurt. That's something none of these other kids would have done. If you have _nothing_ else, you at least showed you have a heart. She has no real strategic value. She's from a wealthy district, which doesn't mesh with any of us from the opposite. Any opportunist would have passed her up as Career fodder. Not you. You ignored all those things and did what your heart said."

"So you're going to try and empathize? To think you know what I'm feeling?" Sam whispered back, angry at the accusations flying her way. "That's not why you're here right now. Quit playing your act."

"Nobody's beating those Careers without numbers and backup, Sam," Storm lowered his head, his eyes like slits – cautioning of danger. "Most of these other guys and girls? They have no chance of going home. Hell, I don't know if _we_ do, but I intend to try my best. I came to you – and to Ash, and he's going to Kevlar – because you and he and she came across as the only people who looked _trustworthy_. That's what I'm talking to you for. That's why I want your help – and why I want to help you and your friend. On our own, we're all dead. We're all lying in wooden boxes right now as our families cry over us, six feet under. Together, maybe one of us toughs this out. I'll be _damned_ if I see those Capitol lapdogs over at the Career table win again."

Sam was taken back. Storm had professed a logical case, and it made sense – but the last line struck home. So _that_ was the reason – she knew District 12 had more problems than virtually any other district, but she didn't know it ran _that_ far. This kid, Storm – he wanted his shot across the Capitol's bow. The Careers had won six years in a row, after all – and his way of playing the game on his rules spoke of ending their streak.

Possibly even at the cost of his own life.

She had been completely wrong. He wasn't a pragmatist, willing to act a part and do whatever it took to claw out a selfish win. No, the boy from 12 spoke like an ideological zealot, determined with blood to get one non-Career tribute across the finish line, whether that was him or another. Maybe he could be trusted, after all – if not as a person, than at least as a _force_. He wouldn't stab someone like her in the back when she represented the same "side" as he, even if she could care less about such matters.

Sam nodded slowly at the passionate attempt by Storm, letting all the information settle. "And your other guy? Ash? He's not gonna slit all our throats in the middle of the night?"

"He's tough, but he's not coming off as the backstabbing killer type - and we need a well-rounded team," Storm asserted. "What I've been learning in the gym isn't necessarily skills and survival strategies. I've been watching and seeing who does what, how people react and learn. You've got brains under that pretty little head of yours; it's easy to tell. Your friend, Gannet? She needs someone to stick with, but she'll be loyal to that person if she receives what she needs. Ash is a physical body. Kevlar looks just like Gannet, except older and from a poor district. Maybe it's a ragtag group, but maybe it can also work out."

"You could learn a few lessons in tact," Sam rolled her eyes at the 'pretty little head' comment. "So you're the glorious leader in all this?"

"It was a compliment," he chuckled. "And yea, I guess I am. District 12's…lax on security, after all. The Peacekeepers and Capitol could give less than a nut about us back home. I've been figuring my way around things for several years now."

_Keep an eye on him if you run into him in the arena, Sam…_

"Alright," Sam finally capitulated, figuring she'd at least be able to outsmart this tribute from 12 – even if he had gotten the early jump with his eyes. If he even survived the Cornucopia. "You want a little army to fight the Careers? If Gannet's fine with it, I am too. I'm not ditching her, though."

"Well, let's present our case," Storm ushered.

Sam noted in the back of her mind how he had used the word "ours" rather than "my" – a stark contrast from Laredo's insistence on me-first terminology. Maybe that was a ploy; maybe it was truthful. He came across like a mystery – where Sam had believed to have seen only a casual and below-average tribute from a wayward district, he'd turned out to have his finger right on the tune of the 98th Hunger Games.

Any way she sliced it, Storm had caught her attention.


	11. The Ghost in the Machine

_**A/N: Pre-Games is beginning to wrap up; only a couple of chapters before it's prime time. So far, I've shown several sides of Sam as our central character – a couple of you have chimed in about how you see her, but lemme know what you all think of her as the protagonist: likes and dislikes, things to improve on, additions, etc. Appreciate all the feedback, guys!**_

The third day of training cast a pallor of seriousness over the tributes in the gymnasium. After lunch, each began to file out, one by one like the range cattle in District 10 headed to the mass-production slaughterhouses on the west side of the district. Crowded in the dining hall, the remaining tributes still milling about slowly died away to smaller and smaller numbers. Sam knew she'd be one of the last, what with girls going second in each district and 10 only preceding 11 and 12 – and the anxiety of the moment caved in like an avalanche, growing over the course of the afternoon.

Dallas had worked with her the night before on their own, as Cheyenne attended to Laredo separately. "You can make a snare, use a blade, throw a rope," the mentor had encouraged his uncertain tribute. "What can you do to make that all stand out?"

"Those have nothing in common," Sam had protested, more out of tension than lack of creativity. "It's not like I can snare an animal and then kill it. There're no animals running around in the gym. I ain't gonna be able to kill anybody, either. Obviously."

"How'd you learn to use a sword, then?" Dallas had looked to maneuver the girl into the correct line of thinking. "You couldn't hack somebody's head off. You just said it yourself."

"A dummy's not a person."

"It's meant to be one. There's no reason you can't snare one of those if you use a little of those brains you have. You want to give yourself a better score, show your best weapon? It's not any skill you have. It's all up in your head."

Sam let the words drip in her mind as the boy from District 9 went forth to his session. In a corner of the gym Storm sat alone – the two tributes had spoken briefly earlier, but both had sought to be alone as the hour turned again. Laredo had reclined against a table, completely at ease with the process – his physical form spoke for itself, and for the briefest moment, Sam envied him. What a relief it must be not to have to worry in such a time – to lack the anxiety and distress that plagued her frayed nerves, torn to the breaking point by these few days in the Capitol and on the executioner's doorstep. How he remained that same composure would follow him – or her – to the grave.

"Laredo Deets."

Just like that, Sam's fellow district tribute picked himself up and walked through the far door. _Just a few minutes now_…

Sam's memory flashed back to years prior – her as a small eleven year-old, still without the Games looming directly over her head. Jake, at fifteen, fought their presence on a yearly basis – yet while she found herself fractured by their every move now, he had pushed away their scythe with resilience and model leadership. Rather than complain about his problems, from family to larger means, he had spent his time helping his sister become the persons he had come to be today.

_The eleven year-old girl sat atop a white horse on the prairie field as the cattle herd stretched out on the plain. Below her stood the boy, four years her senior and pointing to one of the younger cows grazing on District 10's feeding fields._

"_You need to put some oomph into the throw," the boy pointed to the lariat the girl held tentatively on the horse's back. "It takes a little muscle. It'll go where you throw it; you just need to get it there, Sam. Can you do that? I'll be ahead; I'll get the cow once you've got it."_

"_Okay," the girl said timidly. "I just throw?"_

"_That's right. You'll be fine – just hold on! The horse will go where the cow will. Just hold on."_

_The boy ran ahead as the girl steadied herself, keeping an eye keenly on the brown-and-white spotted cow, unaware of anything out of the norm. Uncharted territory…riding a horse had been easy, and she'd mastered that early on. But doing the work of the district? Keeping the cattle moving, grazing, and doing what they were supposed to? That brought about an entirely new set of circumstances._

"_Now Sam!" the boy shouted encouragingly. "You can do it, c'mon!"_

_The girl threw the lariat with as much force as she could, but yanked back far too quickly, fearing the cow would be able to escape her grasp. Failure was not an option! Yet she'd done it anyway as the rope fell short, nabbing instead the boy who had run too quickly before the animal, figuring for a proper throw. The lariat looped around his chest, catching him with an "oompf!" in mid-step and hurling him to the ground with a cloud of dust._

"_Jake!" the girl screamed, jumping off the horse and running forward to the struggling boy. "Jake! I'm sorry!"_

_As the girl ran up, the boy leapt up from the grass and tackled her to the green carpet of the prairie. "I don't think I said lasso me!" he laughed as she giggled right along, slipping like an eel from his grasp. "You're just making all sorts of trouble, sis!"_

"Hey, you ready?"

Sam blinked away from the memories, turning her head up and towards Storm's downcast gray eyes. Looking in them now, she saw a depth and emptiness she hadn't recognized the past two days – as if he had begun to realize the gravity of the situation now, deep in the belly of the beast.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied, the hint of a smile touching upon her lips. "I mean, it doesn't matter does it?"

"Sure it does," Storm answered. "Matters a lot. Right now, we get our first chance to tell our killers that we're not going to sit down and die. That we're going to fight to whatever ends gotta come. You, uh, know what you're doing?"

The memories played again in Sam's mind briefly as she considered the question: "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Samantha Parker."

Both tributes' heads turned towards the open door, beckoning the girl from District 10's prairie fields into their cavernous steel abyss. Sam got to her feet, readying herself for whatever waited for her on the other side of the door before Storm stopped her.

"Sam…good luck, okay?" Storm said quietly. "The next time we're gonna be able talk…can't talk at the interviews, so…well, we'll be in the arena. You…take care, alright?"

"Yeah, Storm," Sam re-assured him, paused at the gateway to the gymnasium and the judgmental eyes of the Gamesmakers. "You too."

* * *

><p><strong>Games Control Room<strong>

"Do you find it odd, Commander, that we hand over the rights to life and death on scores and money? Random allotments of numbers that determine who shall remain to walk among the living, and who will rejoin their ancestors in the stars?"

"Odd?" Trajan Arterius had no trouble holding contact with the Head Gamesmaker's unnatural, electronic-lit eyes after that question. "You think your judging today was…odd?"

"Perhaps I phrased the question inappropriately," Rex set a glass of bourbon down on the display table in the empty Control Room, with the rest of the Gamesmaker staff having returned home after the day's duties. "In a procession that determines the very fate of twenty-three young people in large amount – the first view of their skill, their potential – the majority of my comrades paid more attention to a feast of food. I do recall the girl from our tenth district – a sad creature, really; you can see it in the loss within her blue eyes – and as she went about her prepared routine, quite skillfully, might I add, I found myself the only one paying attention to what she did. Do you think there is justice in that?"

Trajan tossed the question over in his mind. Rex was no man to play with such radical questions, yet he'd clearly shown to the Capitol military commander that he stood fearless of the consequences. Really, what consequences would there be? Octavian, watching over the Games from the presidential manor, loved him. The _Capitol_, and thus _Panem_, loved his high-intensity and ruthless style of executing these sadistic Games. Yet he questioned them?

"Permission to speak freely?" Trajan inquired.

"Of course. I am not a man to stifle what must be heard."

"I don't tolerate shoddy works in my ranks," Trajan commented. "I'll find any amount of patience for the creative, the imaginative, the flexible or unconventional. I can't take that same liberty for those who play with lives. My soldiers may wield guns and drones, while you and yours play within a limited series of confines – but I can't see the difference in terms of what's at stake."

"How strange it is that most do not share your view here in our alpine citadel," Rex took a drink before continuing, clinking ice about the glass. "If I were to ask those on our paved streets about the humanity of fate hinging on numbers flashed across a screen and accompanied with commentary by our illustrious Constantine Flickerman, they would laugh me off with uncertainty. It is only when you yourself have your hand in the jar of life, Commander, that you see what it's worth. These people from the districts – even these children, who our eyes watch over their tortured last moments, scared and alone – they understand the fragile balance of life on our blasted world, particularly under the hand of man."

"What do you mean by that?" Trajan posed. "We're not killing any of them frequently. They stay in line, we let them have their lives. Simple."

"Do you study your history, Commander?" Rex retorted, his face unmoving and steeled. "Before these very Games and their ninety-eight iteration?"

"It's not very critical to what I do. No, I suppose."

"You should. You can find answers for any question life poses you by seeing the actions of our ancestors. We all know the story of the Dark Days; Panem cast in warfare – _terrible_ war, no doubt – via civil strife. But where are our roots? Buried through Panem for millennia – no! Those who came before us knew how to handle civilization far better than we did; those who inhabited the place once called North America stood hand-in-hand with others across our globe for progressive reform, for the rights of man. Yet even _they_ destroyed themselves through nuclear fire and ecological apocalypse; they still found strife preferable to cooperation. If even the best of us through history could not help but annihilate themselves…then what chance do we have, Commander? There is a ghost in the machine – the illogical, animal part of each and every one of us that overlooks what should be done and craves for the short term benefit, whether that is food, water, accomplishment, or entertainment…or even wanton destruction. These Games are just a part – and that ghost in the machine infects everyone who loses themselves in them at the expense of what truly occurs. That ghost destroyed our predecessors, no matter the accomplishments they held high. It can destroy us just as easily, should we not heed its growl."

Trajan pondered the anecdote. He'd never paid attention to history – what use was that in maintaining military order in the Capitol's name? Yet even he knew the paradigm that the Capitol controlled with could not last forever. The districts maintained a decisive manpower advantage, and oppression had a way of rising up when least expected – the Dark Days themselves spoke of that truth, and only through luck and geological advantage had the Capitol triumphed then. Octavian ruled as a "president of the people of the Capitol" – he loved his circuses, his carnivals, his Hunger Games. Yet how much did the young president see the reality of his nation? For all his mystery, Rex had his hand on the pulse of things in Panem. Oppression had bred civil war through the Dark Days; apparently, nobody had learned that lesson. The animal brain had won out again.

"Where'd you learn of North America?" Trajan innocently steered the conversation towards less murky waters. "Not exactly a conversational piece."

"You simply need to know where to look," Rex smiled, a twisted motion that concealed whatever teeth lay within an unopened mouth. "Do the people of our second district know they cut and train upon the ruins of a city built upon a lake of salt? Do the citizens of the eleventh realize the history that paved the way for revolt and conflict beneath their feet? There are records concealed only by time all around us, Commander. It is by our own ignorance that we keep the past a mystery – and at our own unique cost."

Trajan nodded, lacking the words to move on. Rex presented him with a quandary – never before had the commander squared off with such an intelligent man, yet what secrets hid behind those firefly eyes?

"The girl from District 10," Trajan asked. "She any good?"

"She is," Rex raised his glass to his lips before hesitating and lowering it to his lap. "I believe she'll at least stand a chance in the arena. Bested at least half of the other tributes – lacking in confidence, but she is the determined type. I would…_like_ to see her put up a fight."

"Did you give her a good score?"

Rex laughed with an undertone that spoke of disappointment. "The ghost in the machine, Commander. The difference between life and death is not my decision to make."

* * *

><p><strong>Training Center - Tenth Floor<strong>

Hours later, the orange night sky softly wound its way into the tenth floor of the Training Center. The bright white light of the television bathed the floor's living room in a synthetic hue that lit up Sam's eyes. Dallas and Agrippa sat on either side of her hunched form, with Cheyenne sprawled out over a nearby chair and smoking a long, broad cigar. Laredo had taken over the third and final chair in the room as his stylist, Gnaia, loitered against a wall and Augusta stood idly nearby. All had their eyes on one thing – the television, which sported a first-class look at Constantine Flickerman's mint-green hair.

"For our viewers who don't know," Constantine had been saying excitedly, as if opening birthday presents. "Each tribute's private session nets them a score between one and twelve. _You_ are about to get your first look into our contenders and pretenders – who's got staying power, and who's the odds-on favorite to going home first."

"Sure don't waste time," Laredo commented sardonically. "He's acting like this is the end-all, be-all of the whole _dern _dance."

"Kinda is," Cheyenne blew a plume of smoke from her mouth. "Most sponsors are idiots. Half the time you just have to lie to them to get them to pony up, since all they seem to really pay attention to is this score. A few of the smart ones actually try and give a lick of notice. Not the majority."

"It's also a measure of potential in the moment of where it counts," Augusta sniffed at Cheyenne's negative remarks. "After all, if the tribute can't perform under pressure, just wait until the arena!"

Dallas shot her a look that could have killed devils.

"How about we just watch, Augusta?" the mentor slid a hand through his blonde hair, irritated at her unconcerned babbling and throwing a look at Sam. "You can say whatever you want afterwards."

Sam had pulled her knees up to her chest on the couch, hands tightly about her legs. She'd felt good about her performance in the private session, remarkably – to all the butterflies that had leapt up in her gut, she'd managed to give herself a shot. Sam figured it was worth at least a seven, which could contend, if not dominate. Granted, the Careers would all be in the nines and tens most likely, but that'd be close enough.

"Relax, Sam," Agrippa placed a hand on his tribute's shoulder with reassurance. "Nothing more you can do now. Either they liked it, or they didn't and you have nothing to worry about."

The girl couldn't put one small thing out of her head. As she'd gone about the routine planned in her head, a main course – some sort of giant fish and a cooked bird – had arrived for the intoxicated Gamesmakers, who had immediately put aside other concerns and tucked into the food. Only one had maintained his full attention on what she did for the entire time – the disturbing eyes of Phaeston Rex, who had managed to wedge himself in the back of her mind. Bad enough seeing him on television, but when _he_ was the one judging you personally – and doing so with more attention than seemingly anybody had given her, with the exceptions of Dallas an Agrippa – Sam had felt generally uneasy. Although he had nodded and seemed content, who knows what that meant? His professional and intimidating demeanor and appearance when placed in the midst of all the ridiculous-looking fellow Gamesmakers had only heightened the tension.

"Now, getting to the action and the main attraction," Constantine chirped with enthusiasm, his eyes lit up like a child's. "Our _first_ tribute, female, from District 1 – Royal! Scoring out…at an _eleven._"

Right off the bat, the silver-haired vixen had swept the field – Sam knew no one was going to beat that.

"Absolutely marvelous score," Constantine crowed, smitten with the bright number that hung on the screen. "Moving on to our next one, male, from District 1 –Fresco, grading out at a ten."

_Oh, boy. Long night ahead…_

"Io, from District 2, scoring out at a nine. Hadrian, male from District 2 –a ten! Hodgkin, from District 3…"

Names and numbers flew by. The Careers had indeed dominated, just as Sam feared – to round out their five stellar scores, Cascade from 4 had pulled down a nine, just like Io, the girl from 2 who Sam had never learned the name of until now. Gannet scored spectacularly low, grading out at a four – where was the justice in that? Troop, the tall and strange boy from 6, grabbed an eight. Storm's ally – and hers, she guessed – from District 7, Ash, took home an eight as well, which grabbed attention after everyone between Cascade and him (excluding Troop) had scored in the five-to-six range. Kevlar also scored a five; no real surprise there. Sam half suspected she'd never make it out of the Cornucopia to join their band of misfit allies – if she had accepted, at all.

"Nearing the end, folks, hold on tight," Constantine preached to the camera, his smile seemingly filling the entire screen. "Samantha, female, from District 10."

Sam braced herself for whatever was coming. Feast or not, the Gamesmakers had to have paid enough attention to grade her out properly, right? After all, her routine had gone smoothly, and she had felt it was enough to make at least a moderate impact. A seven was fine by her. Anything more, great. They had to have seen something.

"Grading out…at a five," Constantine acknowledged.

Silence hit the room like a mortar strike. Tears threatened to come rushing out of Sam's eyes like a tidal wave as she stared blankly at the screen, the bright number of her score taunting her like a schoolyard bully. Five? There was no logic in that, neither reason nor rhyme – had they really not seen? Not paid attention? What had these other tributes done that she had not?

Sam barely caught Laredo's score of nine, followed by hearty congratulations from everyone in the room to him. She stared out, past the clear windows and into the night sky – yet only the white, hanging _five_ of the television screen stared back at her, mocking her short-sighted hopes.

As the others milled about Laredo, Sam looked about, her eyes threatening to overflow with tears. Only Cheyenne caught her gaze, looking back not with contempt, nor disappoint or even amusement. The mentor who Sam had written off as conceited and psychopathic simply looked on with sympathy.

_The gaze upon a dead soul walking..._

Losing the fight between her conviction and her emotions, Sam buried her head in her knees and let out a sob.


	12. Constantine

_**A/N: Last chapter on pre-Gameday stuff. That's good, because I'm running out of juice here for the emotional stuff…writer's block ahoy! Bonus points if you get the District 9 reference in this chapter.**_

_**Additionally, if you have any suggestions about what's gonna go down in the arena, lemme know – I have a general idea (as far as character progression,) but I'm more than open to input in that sort of form. **_

* * *

><p>The waiting rooms beneath the Capitol City Music Hall lit Sam's figure with gold and rose hues. Her chest fluttered in and out in short breaths as music pumped like a primal beast from above on the stage. Her training the prior day had gone poorly – preoccupied with the score she'd received, she barely paid attention to Dallas and Cheyenne's attempts to drill interview tips into her. What would the audience care? They'd all seen that five. Sponsor points could amount to virtually nil.<p>

What would she amount to on stage, anyway? Sam lacked any of the viciousness of the Careers, the physical brawn of someone like Laredo, or even the sly quickness of others. She was a fifteen year-old girl, straight and simple. Killing other kids in an arena would never be a part of who she was – so how on earth could she sincerely convey that on stage? No, no, that wouldn't be happening.

Words flowed back from her brief minutes before departing District 10, as Clay and Clara had professed their goodbyes.

"_Sammy, you're perky, bright, they'll love you…" "She's right. Show them the girl inside. Get them to want you to win._"

As much as she wanted to give her two closest friends credit, who was the girl inside her but a scared kid? Compared to a lifetime killer like Hadrian, she was nothing more than a sacrificial offering on the altar. Poor betting odds on that for scalpers in the Capitol.

At least Agrippa had come through, as the stylist sat quietly with his tribute. Her evening gown exemplified innocence and purity to the extreme – capitalizing with neutral whites, grays, and browns that used her parade dress as a basis to highlight her youth. Sam figured that the Capitol audience could do no less than see other girls such as Royal and Io as soldiers of this battle – but someone like her could win a sympathy vote with an outfit that showed the cruelty and savagery in Games that preyed on the bounty of the future.

"Laaaaaaadies and gentlemen," a voice crowed from above, as the music died down. "Your moment of truth – let's give a big hand for _your_ master of ceremonies, Constantine _Flickerman!_"

A round of music and applause shot from above as Agrippa finally spoke up: "It's time Sam. Just be honest; Constantine will help you. It's his job."

"I don't have anything!" Sam protested. "All I have is a stupid five for a score. Nobody will like that."

Agrippa walked over and took her hand, pulling her up and gripping her arm. "Sam, that number is just that – a number. You're a person. You can make them see what you're fighting for tonight. Show them you're more than just the killer and victim that everyone else is."

"But what am I then?" Sam asked.

"You," her stylist gazed straight into her eyes, unblinking with deadly calm. "Are a champion. District 10's champion. Go out there and don't hold back."

A set of lifts brought all the tributes up to the stage, rising forth as a preview to what they would face in the arena. Bright lights overwhelmed Sam as she rose to the rear of the stage behind her seat, forcing her to blink away the spotlights on her and the other twenty-three tributes. Constantine's green hair lit up in the lights as ten thousand Capitol citizens in the crowd shouted with glee and giddiness. Sam looked to her left and right, finding the boy from nine looking confused and Laredo seemingly annoyed. Sam struggled to control her breathing as her pulse accelerated rapidly, frantically beating before all these probing, gazing eyes that could mean the difference between survival and an untimely death. A hundred television cameras capture every shot and every tribute – Sam felt a lens on her at all times. Nothing would be missed.

"Thank you, and a big welcome to the tributes of the 98th Games!" Constantine shouted through the applause, his voice boomed by three hundred speakers set throughout the hall. He let the crowd clap themselves dry before continuing, settling down in the tense silence – like predators waiting for the kill strike.

"All these young men and women behind me have me feeling old up here!" Caesar joked to lighten the mood, with a thousand laughs and denials coming from the audience. "Now I know how my father feels!"

"Funny you should say that, Constantine…"

In a twist of fate – or good television planning - old Caesar Flickerman stepped onto the stage, to Constantine's mock surprise and the audience's gasps and laughs. The man had not changed a wink, despite being elderly and in retirement – Capitol cosmetic surgery and alterations had kept his neon blue hair and highlights shining on a wrinkle-free face. As father and son shared commentary jokes and skits with one another to the audience's approval, Sam couldn't help but sink at the stupidity of it all. Here the tributes sat in a half-moon about the stage, a mere day away from potential death – yet here Caesar and Constantine laughed as if the whole thing was a reality show.

Well, it was a television show.

"You're hogging my stage, old man!" Constantine playfully pushed Caesar away from the spotlight to a round of laughs. "We're going to have to petition our president to pay you in feasts to stay away!"

"Here I was hoping that wouldn't show," Caesar fretted comically and rubbed his belly. "I _dread_ treadmills!"

_You all really don't get it_, Sam thought. _All this witty banter hides that half the others up here never ate properly. And now they're going to die while you eat your feasts._

Constantine and Caesar exchanged jokes for a few more minutes before Caesar left for a separate viewing platform to a roaring round of applause as Constantine began with the main program.

"Alright, up first, our _highest_ scoring tribute and a truly regal young woman – from District 1, let's have a hand for _Royal!_"

The vixen from 1 beamed a wide smile as she sauntered up to the stage in a glittering dress that revealed far too much. The audience _oohed_ over her style as she easily slipped into conversation like a leopard. Constantine rolled with the girl's slithering style without a hitch, playing on her natural seductiveness and arrogant attitude. Far too easy – the crowd _loved_ her. She played them all like a snake reeling to strike.

Things progressed near to how Sam expected. Fresco, Hadrian, and Cascade all showed why they were Careers, with combat-minded interviews highlighting their kill-or-be-killed attitudes. None of the three showed any hesitation to slaughtering at will. Gannet reacted politely and stately; Sam couldn't help but smile at the way she held herself. Dignified, small yet composed – getting that four in training couldn't have been easy, but the little girl from the ocean district held her head high regardless. The next few did nothing spectacular – Troop came across as quiet and seemingly with his head somewhere else, while Ash maneuvered around answers to provide as simple explanations as possible. Kevlar barely held herself together at all as District 8's turn rolled about.

"Let's have a big hand for Koobus!" Constantine had barely made it through the District 9 boy's interview himself; it had certainly not been the best. Sam had kept her focus out on the audience, trying to get a feel and realizing she had no idea what she planned to do.

It had all come on too fast.

"Now we all saw her in that beautiful outfit during the opening ceremonies," Constantine began after Koobus from District 9 had sat down. "I have to say, I was blown away – quite literally, in fact! Ladies and gentlemen, from District 10, Samantha Parker!"

Spotlights tore Sam's composure from under her as she instinctively pulled the long formal dress up in stepping forward. Realizing her mistake, she let it flow out like the wind it meant to represent and did her best to fake a smile, approaching Constantine and lightly shaking his hand. The celebrity's grip felt dead in her palm – like some artificial creation deep from whatever underground lab the Capitol produced mutts in. Sam contained the shock at the feeling, doing her best to hold on despite that all eyes of Panem shone upon her at that moment.

"So, Samantha," Constantine sat Sam down and the crowd, on cue, fell quiet. "New to the Capitol; how are you finding things here? Fewer cows I presume?"

Constantine capped his introduction with a hackneyed laugh, grabbing a round of chuckles from the audience. Sam came away surprised at how easily he played the audience – and how, just in a single sentence, he'd managed to get the crowd feeling positive as she took her first breath to speak.

"I, uh," Sam stumbled – _find some words!_ "That was going to be my first thought, actually."

The thought had come out sporadically and at random, yet it worked like a charm as Constantine ran with it. "You know, Samantha, that's really my fault. I'm so sorry you had to see Caesar up here."

The crowd roared with laughter as the camera flipped to Caesar Flickerman, who grabbed his belly with mock shock on his face and comically tilted his head to the camera. One quip about cattle, and already the audience found the tribute and commentator to be an entertaining pair. Sam could hardly believe her luck – Constantine gave her all she was worth and much more, rolling with the part of an entertainer for all he could.

"I'm feeling like I've already jinxed you," Constantine laughed, pushing on. "Anyway, several nights ago when you came out of the Remake Center and before the eyes of Panem for the first time – that _had_ to be a new sensation; before millions and looking just _so_ gorgeous. Tell us how that felt."

"Um, my stylist did a great job," Sam searched for the right phrase – _the damn spotlights; making it hard to even think_! The entire affair was…_intoxicating_. "I was a little intimidated."

_Jeez, way to look weak, Sam. Hovercraft and chariots intimidate you? Honesty stinks. _

"Well, I think we all would be with that light show the Gamesmakers put on this year," Constantine didn't miss a beat. "I have to say, I thought they were trying to bomb me. I'm not that bad, am I folks?"

Constantine gasped in comical horror as the crowd waved away the notion to cheers and laughs. Sam couldn't help but laugh along with him – how much the Capitol really did help you when their show was on the line! She wondered how the boring tributes hadn't been able to feel the energy up on the stage – as frightening as it was to her, she couldn't help but reach deep into the infections river of light that flowed about the interview. Constantine was a master magician of words, navigating the conversation like a skilled sea captain over rough terrain. Nothing fazed him; even Sam's hesitance and stumbling could do no harm.

"No, no," Constantine pleaded with a smile that could melt steel. "You are certainly a _crowd_-pleaser. Is this your secret strategy in the arena? Have the others laugh to death?"

_He's leading you. Just follow what he's doing_. "I dunno," Sam finally managed to line up a coherent answer, batting straight for the fences. "I'll have to team up with you at the Cornucopia for that, I think."

"Oh, you sly fox," Constantine laughed, with the crowd in unison. "And I _knew_ the Gamesmakers were up to something tricky! I hope they at least have the decency to parachute me in."

That had done it. Constantine had capitalized on Sam's initiative, and the crowd had descended into a full-blown laughing tsunami. It had all come on so fast for Sam – just ninety seconds ago, she had been walking forward in tentative, scared steps to the stage. Now Constantine had elevated her to center court just with the power of words. She felt _empowered_, as if she finally belonged here – with the audience laughing alongside her, loving every word Constantine put forth for her, Sam felt her spirits soar. Her emotions had ridden a roller coaster ride of peaks and valleys over the past few days, but now with the start of the real show beginning in less than twenty-four hours, Sam sensed a wave of momentum swinging her way.

"Now, at the Reaping in District 10," Constantine fell into a serious tone, shifting gears to try a new angle. "Obviously, that was an emotional time for you. Is there any special boy waiting for you back home after all this?"

_Crap_. Opening up about Clay would spell trouble – while it'd generate sympathy votes, it'd also reveal to every other tribute – Storm and Gannet included – that she had preoccupations of her own. Granted, every one of them did; however, she had tried her best to cement some semblance of Storm's alliance. Breaking those walls down just to gain one or two sponsors seemed a short-sighted move. In the _extreme _long term, naturally, that'd open up an awkward bag of worms with Clay, as well. She'd hoped to eventually light a fire between them, naturally (or more specifically, that he would notice and take the first step) – but doing so in front of Panem and Constantine Flickerman was far beneath what he deserved. On the other hand, what was the alternative?

The thought hit her. Clay wasn't the only one waiting for her back home. Maybe not _attraction_-wise, but love nonetheless waited.

"Yeah," Sam sniffed, battling conflicting emotions as she pieced together her answer. "My older brother, Jake. He came to talk to me."

"And what did you two say to each other at that final hour?" Constantine urged with understanding and sympathy.

Suddenly, the crowd was no longer there. She no longer was in the Capitol, under the harsh flare of spotlights and beneath an ugly orange sky. Stars dotted out from beneath a prairie night, smiling down on that wooden house that she'd grown up in, where Jake had taught her everything that had come up to this moment. Now, as her last night in safety closed in, Constantine had pushed just the right buttons to make Sam feel the impact of the situation – and all the things she might never have been able to do again. To speak to the ones she loved. To run through the tall grasses where the cattle and goats grazed, lapping up the dry sun.

Her brother's words spoke to her on the stage, harkening back from the Hall of Justice. "_Hang on Sammy. You're gonna come back and we'll see each other again_."

"He told me he'd be the first one to find me off the train back," Sam struggled with holding back a tide of surging emotions as she answered Constantine's question. The crowd had deadened to an absolute silence – all the laughter and comedy had drained out of the hall. "He told me to be strong."

"And strong you are," Constantine pressed her left hand between his, giving her an empathetic gaze before standing up, still holding her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen – from District 10, Samantha Parker."

Applause burst forth from the crowd as Sam whimpered a meek "thank you" as she turned back to her seat. Whatever those three minutes had done – it had gone so fast, and then slowed down into seemingly hours in front of Constantine – Sam had cast her final die before the arena. She could do no more until stepping foot in whatever the Capitol had planned.

Laredo passed by his interview with his trademark apathy, while Storm came across as positively hostile – yet Sam fell lost in her thoughts and feelings, wiping away tears and struggling to remain composed. For all that Constantine had done her good, she felt vulnerable once more as the tributes all stood at the end of the show – her face visible with red marks and puffy eyes as the camera passed her by.

She left the cameras much as she'd arrived – torn and feeling very small.

Hours later, sleep refused to come on the eve of the Games. Sam laid her head on a puffy white pillow and pulled a blanket up, tired yet unable to fall away to dreams. Raucous noises of parties on the streets below seeped through the thick window, infecting the sweet silence of the bedroom with the bloody urges of the Capitol audience. Sam felt disgusted, sick to her stomach – on what could have been her last night, her last opportunity to dream and find some semblance of peace, even while sleeping, the crowds indulged themselves in whatever hedonistic opportunity they could find. All this to see twenty-three kids kill each other – it'd almost be easier just to line up and be hanged off the Training Center roof.

One small dot of light pricked out from the orange urban sky as Sam squinted to decipher what it was. Its yellow-tinted hue barely cut through the light pollution – not a star, but Venus. Venus, the planet of love. She'd left love behind, alright – cut off from Jake as he'd been pulled out by the Peacekeeper. Cut off from Clay by her own fears and hesitance. Sam privately swore if she made it back to District 10, she'd correct those mistakes – she'd conquer those little fears and set right what she'd been unable to say.

"I'll come back," she sniffed into the pillow, burying her nose in its plush cover. "I have to come back. I can't just lie down."

Sam wondered how it was for tributes who had little to look forward to – those already having lost a sibling, or maybe a number of family and friends to poverty or hunger. The District 10 boy from two years prior had come from the community home; he had left nothing but painful memories behind as he died. While that sort of life was unenviable, Sam grudgingly admitted that he – and those like him – held an advantage. They truly had nothing to lose – they'd already lost it all.

She couldn't do that. She had people who still loved her – those who'd watched her on that stage tonight and wished they could have been there to get her through. Even if Clara, Clay, and Jake were the only people in District 10 who gave two breaths about whether she lived or died tomorrow, that was three people she could not let down without a final fight for survival.

As Venus sparkled above the Capitol and shined through her window, Sam gradually fell into the inky blackness of sleep – for possibly the last time.


	13. The Games Begin

_**A/N: Who takes 13 chapters to get to the juicy stuff? This guy! And by juicy, I mean kids hacking at each other with sharp instruments. Yay!**_

* * *

><p>Dawn came with startling quickness – much too soon for Sam. The morning alpine sun hung over the Capitol's mountains like a harbinger of something sinister, its crimson hues painting a ghastly red portrait across the brown peaks. A gentle tapping on the door alerted the girl of the urgency of the moment – by now, Dallas, Cheyenne, and Augusta had most certainly left to begin the rounding up of sponsors. If any would come, really – although the interview had gone well the prior night, how much would that negate the pitiful training score?<p>

Not to mention the more pressing need of surviving the Cornucopia…

Sam wiped sleep from her eyes as she yawned, her mouth stretching wide. A digital clock on the wall read 6:45 AM…with the games officially beginning at 10 AM Capitol time, who knew how long she had? In less than four hours, she could find herself dead – straight dead, the type of dead with finality. Maybe Hadrian would stand over her corpse, spitting on it in disgust as a hovercraft speared it and moved away. Would they cry for her over an open casket back in District 10?

"Sam?" Agrippa's level-headed voice brought everything back to the moment. "It's time. Half-hour until we need to have you on the roof."

She got up and moving with that – so little time, not enough to figure things out. The streets of the Capitol outside her window lay bare with the early hour of the morning; in only a short time, these people who had shown her these accommodations and all the food she could eat would soon be eagerly awaiting her death.

Sam left her hair flowing down onto her shoulders, figuring Agrippa would do as he wanted with it later – she didn't have much of a mind to fix anything related to appearance, anyway. Tossing on a short-sleeved shirt and comfortable pants, the girl stepped out from her room as her stylist awaited her.

"Up to the roof," Agrippa repeated. "A hovercraft's going to be waiting. Most of the other tributes will probably be aboard; I let you have a few minutes extra of sleep."

"Thank you," Sam whispered, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Agrippa grasped each in his painted mitts, giving what comfort he could to the frightened girl.

"Sam," he opined. "Out of my three years as stylist, you've been my strongest tribute. Now, I need you to hold on – once you're in the arena, instinct is going to take over. But now, the time until that point requires you to be steady."

She nodded her head, following him and still holding one hand for the feeling of security. The elevator to the roof moved rapidly, opening to a blast of gusting air and sweet rays from the sun. A squat and stubby hovercraft maintained position above the training center; a pair of ladders, one for each stylist and tribute, hung down like escorts to an execution.

"Just grab hold," Agrippa pushed Sam on. "It'll take you up."

The ladder froze Sam in place as it rose like a beast up to the hovercraft, leaving behind the natural beauty of the dawn and opening up to a world of technology and artificial creation. Blue lights and white walls stared down from a truly alien place as the freezing field disengaged, causing Sam to stumble from the sensation. An attendant dressed in all white grabbed her by the arm, guiding her into the next room – where twenty-three pairs of eyes looked on the last tribute to board. Sam blushed as she was seated and strapped into the last available seat in the cargo hold of the aircraft, with a rumbling from below signifying the gust of thrusters. The Capitol had sent them off – off to death.

"Your arm," a gruff man in white walked about with an intimidating-looking steel needle gun. Without hesitation, he plunged the needle into the nearest tribute's arm – the girl from five, whatever her name had been – and injected a white light straight through the skin.

"What's that?" the girl from 2, Io, asked as she was injected.

"Tracker," the man replied without fanfare. Clearly, he was a talkative type.

Sam grimaced as he plunged the needle deep into her forearm, activating the trigger and sending a hot ball of white light beneath layers of muscle and flesh. She winced as the man pulled the needle out quickly, already moving to the tribute on her right, the boy from District 1- Fresco. No one talked in the hovercraft. No real reason to, after all – everybody would soon be killing everybody else. Alliances had already taken shape (those that even existed…who could she count on?) and everyone else was simply a target.

The hovercraft ride only lasted for a little under an hour as it decelerated quickly, the tension of braking thrusters kicking in. The interior of the craft went dark as the vessel thumped to the ground with a hard landing, and quickly attendants herded the tributes off like sheep, dividing them individually with the efficiency of a slaughterhouse. Tunnels ran below a low-slung building – the final passageways to beneath the arena. Sam felt her pulse rising rapidly as Peacekeepers forced her along the dank halls, a buzzing sound from ventilation and lighting filling her ears. This was it.

"In here," a Peacekeeper ordered after the long walk, opening the door to a room – the Slaughterhouse, as District 10 referred to it as. She would be the only one to use this room in history – but when Capitol tourists visited this place in the years to come, would they remember her? Just see her as some other tribute razed like deformed staple animals, perhaps?

Agrippa stood inside, as the Stylists had departed the hovercraft before the tributes. He spoke no words, simply wrapping his colorful arms about Sam in a protective embrace. The girl let loose every last tear she'd been holding up as she expunged her emotions – better to get them out now. No one else would give half a hump about her inside the arena; Storm? Who knows whether his act was for show, or whether he had been sincere?

"You've got an hour and a half," Agrippa consoled Sam as the two held each other inside the four green walls of the room. "Get a drink, put something light in your stomach. You don't know when you're going to get the chance to eat or drink again. I'll go see what they gave you for an outfit."

Sam's nerves jumped like rabbits inside her stomach as she forced down a few bites of protein and carbs, doing her best to follow Agrippa's advice. She lacked any words for the moment – the reality of the sadistic sport had come crashing down with the dawn, and now – less than one hundred minutes away from what could be an untimely death – she found herself visibly shaking from limb to limb. Water sloshed from a glass as she tried to drink, spilling over her shirt and the low-slung table in the room.

_I can't take this. I can't kill anybody; I'm just a fifteen year-old girl! Why do I have to die? What did I do wrong?_

"Looks like you're in for some cold," Agrippa brought Sam's arena garments to the table, laying them out. "Pants are light and white, but they're built to regulate temperature. Pretty thick boots; this jacket will keep out cold, as well. I'm a little confused why the undershirt is short-sleeved and light, though…"

Sam pulled herself together long enough to scan over the apparel. Brown boots that laced up just above the ankle; thin, yet durable light gray pants that would cover up skin well. The tan hooded jacket, crisp and thick in her hands, would signify her district; 10's color of choice, the light brown, had never been real attractive. A tan undershirt finished things off – but what to make of it?"

"You think it's going to be like snow?" Sam asked tepidly. Blizzard conditions represented the one place she'd do her worst; District 10's prairie snowed on occasion, but never enough to threaten anybody but the impoverished and desperate. Sam's well-to-do house had kept out the winter conditions well; the extreme cold would be a new and lethal endeavor.

"I'd think they'd find that boring," Agrippa mused, running his tattooed arms up and down the hooded jacket. "The Head Gamesmaker doesn't seem the type to want you all freezing to death. Maybe some kind of tundra, or cold swamps. Best I can think of, really."

Neither sounded particularly appealing to Sam. At least the tundra might have wood. Swamps would pull everyone into the marshes and suck unwieldy tributes to early deaths in their mucked vices.

Agrippa helped her into the clothes and tied her dark hair back with a simple ponytail in utilitarian fashion. Stylist and tribute stood together quietly for the remaining thirty minutes – nothing more needed to be said. At the end, a mechanical voice hung in the stale air like a reaper – "_Sixty seconds to launch_."

"Sam, remember, get away from the Cornucopia as fast as you can," Agrippa tossed in the final reminder, his voice dipping. "And just know…you're my champion. I'd put the odds in your favor any day."

Sam squeaked out a cry as the two embraced, with the voice ringing out a thirty-second call. With a deep breath out and a timid first step, Sam slowly approached the awaiting circular platform in the corner of the room. A white light hung over the bubble, as if bringing her up to some otherworldly place as she took her stance on it. Sam locked eyes with Agrippa as ten seconds came and went – and then everything before the Games had come to an end. A glass tube slid over the platform, encasing her in a transparent cylinder. She reached out and placed her hands on the glass, desperate to be free – _no, I don't want to die!_

Agrippa nodded from across the room in solemn silence as the platform began to rise – and with it, the stylist disappeared from view.

Artificial white light closed around Sam on all sides, blinding her with brightness as seconds ticked away. After half a minute, sunlight blasted down into the cylinder, and the glass tube began to retract away. As Sam pulled the jacket tighter around her arms, prepared for a blast of cold, she realized something was wrong – the bright shock wasn't a good sign at all.

Why had they given her a jacket?

"_Ladies and gentlemen_," the voice of old Claudius Templesmith rebounded across the boundaries of the arena. "_Let the 98__th__ Hunger Games…begin!_"

* * *

><p><strong>District 10<strong>

Morning sun ran down warmly on the open plains of District 10. Midland Hill, the tallest point in the district and a grassy area rising hundreds of feet above the rest of the area, stood abandoned today, left in favor of observance of the 98th Hunger Games, as enforced by the Capitol. Still, with everyone around television sets and screens, no Peacekeepers would bother to come out this far. Three people had been keen to acknowledge and capitalize on that fact.

"When'd you two first meet?" Jake Parker, Sam's older brother, tossed a decapitated dandelion head off into the grass. He stretched out in the warm air, looking on over the view out past the electric fence of the district – a vast and cathartic sight, stretching over a dozen miles that gave forth a scene of grassy plains and a birch wood. On any other day, the sight would have been a thing of beauty under the robin's egg blue sky.

"Back in school; we were 'bout…I dunno, nine?" Clay Lamar spat on the grass. "I just remember her on that first day. We were taking a visit to one of the ranches – it was Clara's dad's actually – and the teachers were explaining how pigs were corralled and used to ship out as pork to the Capitol. Most of the kids were trying to pay attention, and the workers were ignoring us; Sam wasn't listening at all. She'd found a sheep – little one, a lamb I guess – and she just sat down in the hay with it, completely unnoticed by the teachers as they went on for about half an hour. She didn't care about what was going on as far as teaching. Hell, she probably knew it already, what with your family's ranch. She just wanted to pet the lamb. She was just so…so pretty sitting there, I remember. Little blue blouse that matched her big eyes, a powder blue ribbon around her ponytail. I didn't care that I was a poor bumpkin; I just thought she was cute. I had to go talk to her."

"Sam was always the sweet one," to Clay's left, a blonde girl – Clara Bowie, who had stood beside Sam at the Reaping – sniffed. "I always talked bad about some of the kids or the teachers, and Clay you were a troublemaker. She just kept her head down and made everyone feel better."

Jake kicked a clod of dirt down the hill, watching it fall away and snowball into a tiny avalanche of dirt. "I just wish it didn't come down to this. Do you ever wonder what it'd be like if the fence wasn't there?"

Clay laughed at the notion. "I have to take tesserae just to keep my siblings and parents fed; I can't go thinking on that kind of thing." He looked down at his feet, shaking away the wealth gap conflict that always divided District 10. "Just look at that. I take tesserae, and it's Sam who gets picked. It's she who has to go die."

"Maybe she'll make it back," Clara tried to brighten the mood, to little effect. A somber silence settled over Sam's two friends and her brother as the three watched puffy cumulus clouds roll by in a steady breeze. Sam could have been enjoying this alongside them; instead, she'd find herself in a marsh, or jungle, or prohibitive forest – who knew? The one sure constant would be its lethality.

"I think we've all figured it out," Clay put his arm around Clara. He'd always valued her as a friend – though he'd found himself feeling more than just friendship towards Sam. Now, he'd never be able to say the words he needed to. "There's a…a reason why our district never wins."

"Sam was really the only family I had, all I ever really held on to," Jake muttered, looking out onto the plains below the hill, yet looking nowhere in particular. "Our dad never really gave more than a horse's hump about either of us. Mom died in her birth. We did everything around the ranch together for fifteen years. I taught her to ride, taught her to rope a steer…she taught me the little things. What it meant to have somebody who believed in you."

Clara lost her usually steadfast demeanor, breaking into sobs again. "Why do they do this?" she asked to the summer air as she pounded a fist against the soft ground. "They know it tears us apart every year, whether it's those fishermen freaks in District 4 or us here in 10. How do they expect us to watch our friends and siblings and everyone else just kill each other? They're just kids…Sam's just a girl like me…how can all those people down in the square right now even be watching? Everyone in the district but us is! It's so _sick._"

"Not really a question of why," Jake grimly looked onto the pastoral land. "Makes you lose a little faith in people, though. Ya gotta wonder…have we been always doing this? People just killing each other for sport…so that a few rich and fat animals up in their towers can look down and place some bets while the rest of us have to pay for their fun?"

"If they did," Clay held Clara tighter as the girl struggled to compose herself. "Sam's never gonna find out. Neither are we."

* * *

><p><strong>The Arena<strong>

"_Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…_"

Hot desert light beat down like a merciless slave driver. Dry, parched air forced Sam to reflexively swallow as she surveyed the surroundings, expecting what possibly was her final minute of life. A dry and cracked bed of earth extended out in a circular mesa in a one hundred-yard radius, spattered with dry scrub and sticks here and there. Off to her right, the ground sloped up into a grove of eucalyptus trees that offered potential cover – pretty far away, however, and through a number of tributes, including Io from 2 and Cascade from 4. That seemed like a death sentence if they could clear out to the Cornucopia in time.

In the other three directions, however, nothing showed – even behind her. The desert earth must have sloped off from each, down to a gorge or valley or depression of some sort. Either way, Sam figured she'd stick out of those, but might be able to make some more distance – which would be vitally important as tributes killed one another around the Cornucopia in the coming minutes.

Ah, the golden horn, sticking out of place like a fish out of water. As Claudius counted below thirty seconds, Sam took a moment to scan her area. A number of weapons – ranging from a sword nearly as large as she was to throwing knives, tomahawks, a chain flail with a lethal-looking spiked ball, and a long halberd adorned with a wicked curved blade – stood out at the Cornucopia's mouth. Phaeston Rex had obviously been in the mood for violence as he'd filled an obscene amount of weaponry about the place. Still, branching out from the Cornucopia lay several bags, sleeping bag packs, and other more utilitarian things.

_There_ – just twenty feet away lay a bright blue backpack, seemingly full of things which would help Sam survive in the desert climate. Although heat filled her niche much better than tundra – District 10 remained hot through most of the year, only really cooling to snowfall in the winter – finding water would be an absolute necessity, and the parched air, lacking humidity of any sort, would quickly sap away any means of hydration. A waist pack on a belt sat just next to that, maybe seven feet closer. Sam didn't want to stray more than ten feet in towards the Cornucopia, but collecting both of those packs would go a long way to survival on her own. The boy next to her had the same idea – Troop, from District 6. He had stuck out in her mind a number of times, and now it seemed she'd have to go through him again as he readied himself for a running start.

As Claudius reached the ten second mark, one final tribute stood out to Sam. There, seven tributes clockwise from herself stood Royal in her regal glamor. She wore a sneering smile upon her face, ready to begin the slaughter – _really good idea to get out of here, Sam_.

Was Jake watching from District 10, seeing her last seconds?

"_Two…one…_"

With a loud _bong_ and a red flare shooting vertically out the tip of the Cornucopia's tapered end, Royal had already managed to clear four bounding leaps before Sam even had the wherewithal to get off her platform. Beside her, Troop had his eye on the backpack – reaching it long before she did. Sam stumbled a few steps to the smaller pack, just having enough time to loop it about her waist and secure it tightly before a _whizzz_ came whistling in. Acting on pure adrenaline, she dove for the side as Troop before her leapt up like a hurdler. A silver arrow zipped underneath him and shot just inches from Sam's outstretched leg – Royal had already reached the Cornucopia first, letting loose the shot that had almost claimed a life.

_Well, she's a fast one_.

Sam scrambled for her feet as she caught sight of Hadrian's colossal form grabbing the halberd and unloading on the boy from District 5. The tribute from District 2 blasted the axe head of the weapon into the boy's chest, driving him down into the ground with a spray of blood. Hadrian reacted on years of training, wasting no time in swinging the weapon about and spearing the boy from 5 on the angry curved blade of the polearm. A river of blood stained the dry earth as the boy choked up a spray of crimson – already, the arena had taken one tribute.

"_Sam, remember, get away from the Cornucopia as fast as you can_."

Agrippa's words spurned Sam into action as she made a mad dash to the open ground behind her. Troop had accelerated in another direction, already descending out of sight down into whatever lay below. Just as Sam began to feel as if she'd cleared the ring of destruction, a _whump_ hit the ground beside her. A black tomahawk lodged itself into the ground, just a foot from where she had just been standing. Sam afforded herself a gaze back – here came Fresco, covering ground like a champion sprinter and holding a second tomahawk in attack position. Sam let out a shriek and bolted as fast as she could, trying to put distance between her and the daunting Career.

A _thwack_ resounded off Sam's calf as she felt herself thrown forward – apparently, Fresco wasn't the best axe thrower around, as the straight wooden handle of the weapon had found her leg and ricocheted the tomahawk off to the left. The District 1 tribute had pulled up the chase upon reaching his originally thrown weapon, apparently unwilling to leave himself unarmed and thus vulnerable. Besides, there were other tributes who needed killing.

Still, the effect of the blunted impact had left Sam sliding down the rapidly-descending ground. She realized why she hadn't been able to see off where the land had recessed; not only did the ground dip out from beneath the Cornocupia's mesa, but a canyon stretched out like a gaping maw before her. Sam struggled to slow her slipping fall as she tried to hold on to anything, but the descent had grown too steep.

With a tumbling cry, Sam reached out for a handhold to grab onto as the ground dropped out into emptiness.


	14. Into the Gorge

A sharp, throbbing pain in Sam's left hand let her know she hadn't fallen to her death off the ridge. Sounds of rattling metal and high-pitched screams above simultaneously alerted her to the presence of danger nearby – that, while Fresco and the others might have disregarded her as a corpse by now, the battle around the Cornucopia still raged for the spring of supplies, weapons, and death-dealing material that would determine life or death out in the arena. With a blink of her eyes and a realization of her surroundings, Sam quickly ascertained her situation.

The fingers of her left hand had subconsciously grabbed hold of a sturdy root protruding from the red stone face of the cliff; it left her dangling by a thread, but she hadn't died yet. Below, seventy feet of sheer drop fell away vertically to a sloping mound that ran down to the canyon floor. All together, the Cornucopia stood more than eight hundred feet above the canyon floor. Sam would have some hiking – and based on her current predicament, climbing – to do if she wanted to get down to the bottom.

Beating rays from the sun already brought forth beads of sweat from Sam's forehead, but she couldn't remove the insulating jacket while hanging from the root – she'd just have to bear it until she found a way down. Fortunately, a number of slits and gaps in the rock face provided a cumbersome but possible means of scaling the cliff down. Sam identified the nearest handhold, a jagged inlet in the rock, and took a breath of faith as she pushed her free had towards it.

For an inexperienced climber, the girl quickly found an aptitude for climbing. Whether or not that was because she had found herself stuck in a life-or-death situation where going up meant certain death on the business end of a Career's weapon seemed likely, although she made decent progress moving from nook to nook, spreading her weight amongst three limbs and using the fourth to find a new place to step and continue to drop. The red rocks of the cliff supported the girl's weight easily, although the glare of the sun as it moved across the sky provided an annoying – even slightly painful – nuisance.

_Well Sam, you're in the thick of it now_, she thought as she reached a narrow ledge, using the inlet to take a small break and cramming herself into the meager shade. _How many are already dead up at the Cornucopia? 10? 11? Laredo, Storm, Gannet among them?_

To be fair, Sam didn't particularly care who else had died at this point. Her first priority was getting down to the lower levels – where the sun would only provide problems for a few hours during the worst of the hot day. The dry desert air had swelled to at least one hundred degrees, and she quickly shed the cumbersome jacket and tied it around her waist, just above the pack. _Might as well see what that has in it…_

The backpack would have given better provisions, if only she'd been faster! Now Troop, if he wasn't already dead, was running amok with it. Sam opened the two pouches of the waist pack, careful not to scatter the contents on the cliff ledge as she examined her bounty. For starters, a short and stout collapsible blade – not enough to actually hurt anybody, but it'd be able to cut through wood and similar materials. Decent catch there, especially if the temperature in the desert dropped at night and she needed to make a fire…which the second item handily indicated. Sam stared at the black rock for a short moment before putting two and two together – a flint! No need to worry about grinding a piece of wood against another for wasted minutes on end to produce an ember, as the fire starting station during training had shown. She hadn't been particularly good at that, anyway.

"Little bit of twine…one cloth bandage…that's it," Sam murmured softly to herself as she checked the remaining contents. Obviously, the pack wouldn't have much, but nothing in terms of food or water meant she'd have to be proactive early on. The twine was a good sign. It wasn't a rope and wouldn't let her take action against another tribute – if she could even steel herself to do that – but it would come in handy for multipurpose uses.

_Boom!_ Too soon – why were the cannons already going off? _Boom! Boom!_ Blast after blast from the harbingers of death sounded off across the silenced canyon air. Sam left a tally going through her head as each cannon shot sounded out – _five, six, seven._ Abruptly, the series of shots ended on the eighth blast – only eight dead? A relatively bloodless Cornucopia – maybe everyone had bugged out, and thus the short time since the initial gong. So, eight dead – sixteen tributes left standing, and fifteen between her and going home. The odds…still not in her favor.

A chill swept over Sam as she huddled in the growing shade of the narrow rock ledge. _Dead_. Eight families would be receiving pine boxes with the bodies of their children and siblings soon. No coming back from that. How did she think she'd get out of here? Hostile climate, aggressive Careers (and they'd probably all survived) and good number of tributes still roaming about, on the warpath. The weaker ones had likely been weeded out by now, leaving the strong behind.

Sam reminded herself that _she_ represented the "weaker" crowd, so perhaps assuming too fast would be a mistake.

She wrapped her arms about her knees, casting a long look over the canyon from her vantage point. For being a desert, a light stream did run right down the middle of the geography – of course. As Dallas had said, the Head Gamesmaker couldn't have people dying of dehydration. Too boring. Scrub vegetation cropped up here and there between eucalyptus trees, all woven onto the canvas of red rock that made the majority of the picture before her. Well, water was taken care of – food would be next.

_They really could have put something in this pack…nothing to do but start down, now_.

Sam looked at her hands for the first time. The rock face had cut them up, leaving red welts and scratches leaking dots of blood from wounds. She'd have to worry about those later, however – if she didn't get down from here, there'd be nothing left but a long, slow death. The Careers undoubtedly had pitched camp up top by the Cornucopia, probably figuring this cliff signified a quick drop and end to anybody who'd come down this way. If they thought she was dead, all the better.

Sam gritted her teeth as she belted the pack and continued the climb down, trying to balance more weight on her feet so as to take pressure off her hands. The cliffs alternated between vertical faces and gentler sloping hills that gave Sam time to catch her breath and slow her descent as she picked out the paths of least resistance. The sun had already passed high noon, beginning a long trek into the evening. However, Sam knew the desert posed its own sort of quandary there – with the sheer rock walls, darkness could come fast. She'd have to find some place to eke out a shelter before the night came on. Here with little real vegetation and no cover outside of massive rocks, things would grow cold _very_ fast.

_So that's why they gave me the jacket, I guess. Foresight is 50/50…_

As Sam neared the end of the climb, willing herself to the finish to ease the pressure on her torn hands, a long and loud male cry roared across the canyon. Sam slipped as it resounded, falling the last ten feet into the canyon's dirt and crumpling to her rear. The familiar _Boom!_ of the canyon thundered once more – nine down now. Fifteen tributes left.

Water in the creek kept up a constant flow as Sam checked out her local area – no tributes nearby, no rustling noises. Safety at last – or at least the temporary illusion of it. The moving water meant it'd be safe to drink, which by now she craved despite the sun's retreat over the cliff top. With nothing to hold water, however, Sam only could afford a passing drink as she scoped out places to spend the night. Moving too long would accomplish nothing but run her into a fellow tribute – possibly an armed one. Meanwhile, the nearby rocks showed off several small, low-slung caves and wind-swept dugouts that would provide dark cover and shelter from the elements in the first night in the arena.

_Better get a fire going before dark,_ Sam thought to herself. _Put it out before nightfall, but get the warm coals at least. No telling how badly the temperature will drop here...and that's better than nothing_.

Scrub provided ideal dry flora for kick-starting a fire, and Sam picked out a small yet accessible rock indentation forty feet up from the canyon stream. The flint and knife paid off handsomely, rewarding the girl for her decision to risk acquiring the waist pack – without it, she doubted she would have had any warmth besides what the jacket had provided. In no time, Sam had a small, clean fire going with a minimum of smoke – perfect for snaring some warmth in the waning hours of day, but not so much as to attract attention.

All of the sudden, Sam felt overwhelmed by the events of the day. Eight – now nine – tributes already had died, their young lives cut short by sadism on the behalf of Capitol audiences. They could certainly see her now as she tucked her chin onto her arms, wrapping them about herself – what to think of the girl with the training score of five, who'd survived the opening event? Did she look weak, staring blankly over a fire, contemplating mortality and the ethics behind it? Did any of them care, or were they too preoccupied watching Fresco, Royal, and the other Careers drink blood and laugh at their killings…or whatever it was Careers did?

Little Gannet. She'd probably never stood a chance, and Sam figured she'd be seeing her face as one of the first up to bat in tonight's morbid slideshow of fatalities. The whole notion of an alliance had been a fairy tale anyway; who would want to team up with her? Gannet and her scores in training combined still came out two lower than Royal's, and only tied the lowest-scoring Career, Io from 2. Sam privately wished her family some peace, certain they'd be seeing their small daughter with the ocean-green eyes returning home to District 4 shortly.

Only the good died young. Well, maybe some of the bad too._ After all, who's going to miss Hadrian…_

Sam rebounded on her way of thinking. No doubt Hadrian had a family too, and unless he managed to carve his way through twenty-three other kids, he'd be going home before tearful siblings, parents, and friends – just like she would unless fate decided to cast its die with her. Where would they put her body? Buried beside her mother in the family plot, she supposed…the mother she'd never known, dying in her childbirth. How touching that the Capitol would ensure that sacrifice had been in vain.

A desert spider crept along Sam's foot inside the squat cave, prompting her to stick out her tongue at the arachnid. "Ugh, go away. I'm not your friend."

Another thought quickly filled her mind. She'd found no food, and the rumbling in her stomach came as a quick reminder that she needed something besides the brief breakfast that had occurred in the Slaughterhouse before the Cornucopia entrance. Had that only been today? It seemed like a lifetime ago…from narrowly avoiding Royal's arrow and Fresco's tomahawk to making her way down into the canyon and securing this cave, Sam felt as if she'd spent the better part of a week getting this far.

She needed food, however…_well, the training did have edible insects for a reason…_

Sam scrunched her face as she popped open her knife and caught the spider with the blade, pinning it to the ground. "I really…really just do not want to do this..."

_Oh, but the Capitol will LOVE this! Watch the scared-to-death girl eat a bug! Even District 12 isn't this uncivilized!_

Sam beheaded the arachnid as quickly as possible, closing her eyes and ramming the twitching backside and legs of the spider into her mouth. _Blech!_ An explosion of terrible flavor harkening back to the smell of festering pig guano on her father's ranch filled her mouth with all sorts of horrible thoughts. Sam fought back a choking sensation, forcing herself to swallow the unpleasant yet nutritious arachnid and closing her eyes tightly. It was better than killing other tributes, at least…not a _lot_ better, but still better.

With a sigh, Sam put her back against the wall and spread out the fire in the cave's sand with her boot. The sun had since set, and darkness declined rapidly – with the temperature dropping in accordance. She unwrapped the jacket from about her waist and threw it over her shoulders; whatever heat it managed to hold in, it'd be better than nothing. The fire wouldn't last long now, but the coals would remain hot – giving heat without giving away her position. After all, the Careers would probably be out and about at night with everyone else sleeping or struggling to find warmth in the cold desert evening.

The Capitol anthem jarred her from a trance as she looked out over the canyon, signifying the "end of the day" inside the arena and the tallying of the killcount so far. Well, she'd made it one day – better than none, even if her chances hadn't improved drastically. Time to see where the competition stood…and which tributes would never get to see their families crying over their bodies, wishing the Capitol had never drawn them into this great game of death.

Io! A Career dead on the first day? The girl from District 2's picture shocked Sam – how in the world had that happened? Not only did the typical Careers not go that fast – indeed, like the past year when all six from the three districts had made it to the endgame – but 2's legendary warrior prowess would _never_ accept that kind of early bowing out. _This _was a first.

Io's picture gave way to a slow, haunting montage of children slain by forces outside their control, painstakingly displayed in the sky to the powerful Capitol music that accompanied the visages. Both the girl and boy from 3 – not really surprising. District 3 succeeded from behind computers and tools, not wielding swords and spears. The boy from 5 who Sam had watched Hadrian gore – so Gannet _had_ made it; probably without anything of use, though. She was simply too small for the Careers to want, and no way would she have lasted in the bloodbath up on the mesa. The girl from 6, both from 7 – _so much for allying with Ash, huh Storm? If you're even still alive._ The boy from 8 and the confused-looking boy from 9 she'd sat next to the prior night at the interviews – Koobus, that had been his name – rounded out the dead. The outlying districts had done particularly well – nobody from 12, 11, or 10 gone. That meant Storm still wandered about somewhere – but so did Laredo, and who knew what he was up to? _Better yet, who cares?_

A wave of sleepiness descended on Sam as she slid back against the cave wall. The night's rest before back in the Capitol had done little to recharge her energy, and the tension of the day's action and her close calls with fate had drawn what little fight she had in her out. The emotional drain sapped everything out of Sam as the first stars began coming out – she didn't even have enough battle left in her for tears. No, those had all drained out at the Reaping or back in the Capitol. Now, she just had to keep moving.

Keep moving, and damn what anybody in the Capitol thought.

As she began to drift off to inevitable sleep, the coals from the dead fire glowing with rosy embers, the familiar constellations in the night sky crept out into view. Sam reached her right hand up with her eyes half-closed, positioning three fingers against the back of the drinking dipper's tail and moving it three times away – there, on the end of her ring finger, a small, lonely star hung in the sky. North – Polaris – and somewhere far away on the prairie she'd grown up on, she knew the only people who cared about her in this game of demons would look on that star and know she was safe.

_You can't help me now, Jake. I'm on my own…but thank you for being there for everything before, if I never have the chance to say it again_. _Please, when I come back...please, just move on. I'd cry if you died inside for me._

Hungry, afraid, and alone, yet comforted by the stars, Sam succumbed to the seductive calls of sleep.

An hour later, she awoke with a start to bright orange light – had the fire kicked up again? Sam's eyes caught a blazing chunk of wood at her feet, along where her coals had now kicked back up. Standing behind the light stood a tall boy, clear over six feet in height, holding a spear like a walking stick and spitting into the flames.

"Good, you're awake," Troop spat, his eyes alight with fire and shadows dancing across his long, dour face. "Just wouldn't be proper to have to kill you in your sleep."


	15. A Spark Ignited

Illuminated in the flickering light of his dropped torch, Troop stood before Sam like a nightmare bathed in hellish orange. She froze in terror at the sight of him, heat welling up in her belly and spreading out across her limbs and chest. The spear he held glinted in the light – its lethality unquestioned, ability to kill obvious. Troop hadn't seemed so physically built back in training; now, up-close and in the soft light, he looked ready to pounce.

_I am going to die,_ Sam thought rapidly. _This boy isn't going to want an alliance. He's looking to kill_.

"It's nothing personal, you know," Troop looked to the ground, as if resigned to committing this act. "A man's just got to do what he has to in order to survive. Speaking of which, I haven't been able to really find any food, so I'll need to take a little of you once we're finished here…nothing personal, as I said. Just need to stay alive."

_He's going to eat me. He's going to kill me and then eat me. _

"Not talkative I guess," the boy from District 6 mused, apparently unsure of how to handle the process of taking a life. "Well, this is awkward. Gonna be a new milestone for me. Guess it's time to get this over with."

Troop scooped up the spear in one hand, walking over to Sam – who had been paralyzed with fear as he'd spoke. Now the sight of him strolling up to deal her death in most inglorious fashion drove her to action. The heat of the moment had caused her to forget her small knife, but it wouldn't have come anywhere near the reach of the long weapon the boy carried. Rather, she looked around, gasping for breaths and scooping up a handful of sand. In one quick motion, Sam hurled the dirt and debris into Troop's face – a dead hit across the eyes.

"Damn!" the boy from 6 yelled, still clutching the spear but clawing at his momentarily-blinded eyes.

Although it was clear that Troop had never had much training in such a situation and hadn't prepared for this, Sam wasted no time. Every instinct in her screamed _Run!_ Yet she did not run – her legs froze, rooted to the ground as Troop began to work his sight back again. With little time remaining before he skewered her like a roasting animal, she grabbed the cool end of the torch he'd dropped and swung the flaming brand like a battleaxe at his head.

"Stay _away_ from me!" Sam shrieked like a banshee as the torch connected against the lanky boy's temple with an audible _thwack!_ "Stay away!"

The top of the torch exploded on contact, its burning wood whipping straight into Troop's face with a shroud of embers and sparks. The lanky boy screamed in pain, dropping the spear and ripping at his head to put out the fiery inferno that had once been his hair – in the parched air, it had lit up like a bonfire. Sam fell completely out of control, guided on sheer adrenaline as she jammed the burning end of the torch in Troop's neck.

_He tried to kill me! He was going to eat me!_

Justifications could wait for later as Troop rolled about on the ground, spitting up charred flesh and inhaling his own burning skin. Using the stabbing technique she'd picked up at the sword station in training, Sam plunged the flaming light again and again into the boy's body with as much precision as her hysterical state of mind could muster – which was little. Whatever the torch had been lit with, it nonetheless spread fire like a contagious virus across Troop's body, engulfing his jacket, head, and pants in an incendiary embrace. He let out agonized screams as he struggled in vain to put out the flames, rolling about the sand to little effect. For good measure, Sam let out a yell and threw the remainder of her hot coals on his flailing body with the torch like a shovel.

"Stay _away!_"

Despite Sam's frantic shout, Troop was already on his way to staying very away. The tribute's movements had grown fainter with each strike of the flaming brand that had spread fiery agony down his limbs and body. As the scent of roasted human flesh and charbroiled hair wafted like a poisonous snake into the air, Troop stopped moving entirely – his only sign of life a small panting from his chest. Soon, too, that also ceased.

The cannon sounded again – ten children headed home in boxes, never again to speak to their loved ones.

Sam stumbled backwards as Troop's body began to cool, throwing aside the still-lit torch and kicking the fallen tribute's spear aside. She scrambled for breath, ripping off her jacket and throwing it to the ground. Sam grabbed her ponytail and pulled it over her shoulder, grabbing onto her hair for support as if she'd be taken away to some dark underworld. Dead! She'd killed him! How…why…but he'd tried to kill her, right? That made it okay?

Black flesh and destroyed skin stared back at her from the scene of the crime, laying accusations of murder and hate. She'd killed him, alright. Her deed. Her actions. _Dead_. The boy's family would look at whatever screen they watched through in pain and tears, blaming _her_ and her alone for the death of their son. If he was their only child? A generation of dreams and hopes, wiped out by one girl's hysterical screaming attack. _Dead_.

With a soft _whiz_, one of the Gamesmaker drones invisibly shot by the canyon, slowing just enough to hit Troop's body with a snaring metal whip before sucking him up into its cargo bay and shooting away. Just like that, the Capitol had gotten rid of the body – and now Sam knew that was it. She'd killed somebody – the thought hadn't quite registered, yet its impact had already slammed home into her emotions. A week ago, she'd been just another girl in District 10, with a future on a ranch, maybe a family, husband, that sort of thing. Now if she made it out…_if_…she'd always see that flaming, twisting, writhing mess of Troop's body as she beat it over and over with the flaming torch. Him _dying_ – through only a minute fraction of time, the lanky, eerie boy from District 6 had seared his image into her mind.

"It's okay, Sam."

Instinctively, Sam reached out for the spear at the sound of someone calling her name – holding the weapon at the ready as she frantically looked around like a wounded animal. At the wide brim of the cave stood a solitary figure – barely lit by the flickering torch that slowly died down.

"Don't come closer," Sam warned, curling down into a crouch and aiming the spear out like a cavalry lance. "Don't…"

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the figure walked closer, dropping a backpack to the ground and revealing his identity. Storm – how'd he find her? No, wait, that was obvious. Why was he here?

"What do you want?" Sam cautioned with the weapon, not entirely trusting after the gruesome encounter with Troop.

"Sam…are you gonna drop the spear?"

With a choking cry, Sam let the weapon clatter to the sandy floor of the cave and buried her head in her knees. Storm sat down next to her, putting an arm around her shaking body and holding on tight.

"I _killed_ him," Sam wept, letting out the trauma of her first murder. "_Killed_. He's _dead_ because of me."

Storm kicked the fire out, casting the cave in darkness. Finding them by sight would be hard with no fire and no ambient light, even with the moon out in the canyon. The cave wasn't large, although the shadow it produced more than hid their two bodies. Getting Sam to shut up enough to conceal their whereabouts, however, was another matter. Troop had been dumb enough to give away his position with the torch, but her loud struggle with him hadn't helped matters.

"_Dead_. It's all my fault and now I'm a killer…what have I _done._"

"Sam. It's _okay_," Storm consoled, wrapping her tighter and burying her head in his chest. If nothing else, it made the girl quiet down from loud weeping to snorting and sniffing as she cleared her nose. "I know it's hard. We're all stuck here…you did what you had to. You did the right thing."

"It's not the right thing!" Sam found herself on the verge of losing control of her raging emotions again as she pounded a small fist into Storm's thickly-built chest. "Someone's dead because of me! Someone who I watched die!"

"He woulda killed you," Storm said simply, picking up the jacket she'd tossed to the ground and pulling it over her like a blanket. "You're gonna get cold. There's nothing more you can do. Nothing anybody can do now. You're alive and still fighting."

Sam slumped against the cave wall with streaks of fluid and dirt leaving dark rivers down her cheeks. Storm could kill her right now…he'd be entirely within his rights, given that only one person would be leaving. Besides, he'd only be killing a murderer – only _justified_, there. Yet she didn't feel like defending herself, or warding him off…or even taking the initiative and killing him herself, as she figured she or someone else would eventually have to do. Why? She killed Troop on instinct…maybe because she'd already killed one person, killing again seemed like a monstrosity. Seeing that body in flames, knowing it would always be in the back of her mind…would she really mind dying right now? It could be better than the alternative.

"Why are you doing this?" Sam spoke softly, her lips barely moving in the chilling desert air. "Why aren't you killing me?"

"Why would I do that?" Storm asked rhetorically – was he sincere? Sam struggled with the question.

Regardless, she laid her head against the wall, wrapped the jacket around her tighter, and fell back asleep. The boy from District 12 was right about one thing – there was nothing more she could do now. All the tears shed and the action of killing Troop and the aftermath had left her tired, depressed, and confused.

Burning voices filled her dreams. The Capitol had seared the images and sounds forever into the prison of her mind - she'd never be free.


	16. Springing the Trap

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, cynicz! And apology for the slowness in getting this latest update in, readership; I mean to do one-a-day, but this one took some work getting right.**_

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm going to have to take some of you; it's nothing personal!"<em>

"_Get off! Get off me!"_

_Troop sauntered through Sam's dreams, laughing as he cut away at her. She tried to move and get away, yet found herself bound to a red cliff, overseeing legions of laughing, shrieking Capitol fans peering up from the rocky canyon below. The windy dress she wore had turned to air that circled her body like a cyclone as Troop took his time chewing flesh and swallowing in as dramatic a fashion as possible._

"_It's nothing personal."_

_Yet he wasn't a boy, no – he was a fire demon, born from ashes and charred to broil as the tribute from District 6 gazed into Sam's face. His eyes reflected an odd shimmer and sheen as flames licked away across his body, setting his skin the color of tar. Blue electric lines shined out from those eyes – as he burned and melted, the eyes looked on. Sam pulled at her wrists, scrambling to get away as Troop slowly burned away – revealing the Head Gamesmaker, Phaeston Rex, below. He gazed at her like he had from the television screen on the train, expression full of foreboding mystery and dark intent. Who was this beast hewn from the shadows?_

"_An interesting tribute from District 10," Rex spoke, each syllable launching black fire from his mouth before his voice broke into that of President Octavian. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"_

"_It's nothing personal – just relax, Samantha. Sam."_

"Sam! Wake up!"

She snapped her eyes open from the dream and shook away perceptions of the fallen Troop and the enigmatic Rex. Storm stood over her, his hands on her shoulder shaking her awake. A concerned look played across his eyes as she came to, stretching out and testing her limbs. Well, she wasn't dead. Sam swung her eyes back over the spot Troop had died just the night before and flung herself back with a start – no, he wasn't there. He couldn't do anything now.

"Whas' goin' on?" Sam sleepily asked, vaguely aware of the pink morning light sneaking into the cave.

Storm knelt and took a look outside as he spoke. "You were mumbling and rolling about in your sleep, grabbing at your arms. Didn't look like a happy dream."

_Wait, so is he going to kill me now?_ Sam thought, still adjusting from the prior night. _No, wait. He's the ally. Right._

"So, uh," she said, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment. "What happens now?"

"I was thinking I'd just hitch a train back to District 12," Storm replied sarcastically. "Then I remembered I'm in an arena on some uncharted end of the planet. Happy Hunger Games. The odds are in the Capitol's favor."

Sam momentarily dwelt on the lunacy of mocking the Capitol right in front of their nose, yet remembered she was already stuck in a game of death with just one winner. It didn't get more sadistic than that, so why bother playing nice?

"How'd you find me again?" Sam asked. "You just like…came out of the night yesterday. Now we're here."

"Troop was tromping about with that torch of his. Couldn't really miss him, so I followed him and stayed well behind – figured I could nab some of his stuff and kill him while he slept. You did the work for me."

Sam went quiet as Storm nonchalantly discussed the killing – did he really think that? That taking another person's life only involved intent and the moment? Sam still had yet to come to terms with Troop's quick and fiery death by the slight of her hand and a shock of adrenaline, but all her tears had run their course. She had nothing left to offer in an arena that would chew her up and spit her out if she wasn't careful – even around someone ostensibly trustworthy, like Storm. If he could take her killing Troop so easily and dismiss it with a few words, how easily could he kill her off while she slept? He could very well be using her as a distraction until most of the field was gone, and then take her out easily.

_Dangerous, that one_.

"I don't, uh, don't really want to talk about that," Sam deflected attention from District 6's loss. "It's morning, I don't think we should stay here. Let's just go before someone else shows up."

In truth, that last part did scare her. The cave offered shelter and anonymity in darkness, yet in the coming daylight, it would be easy to spot and see from the canyon floor. She had had no time to survey the arena, so there was no telling if tributes would be passing this way any time soon. The cave was far enough away from the Cornucopia – and vertically, it was a challenge for anyone up there to get to, as she'd found out – yet the Careers would be able to keep much better speed and endurance in their hunts than anyone else. Sticking around in one place invited death – if not from them, then from the haunting specter of Phaeston Rex that had invaded her dreams.

_He_ wouldn't just let his Hunger Games devolve into boredom, after all.

"You have anything good on you?" Storm asked, peeling himself away from the cave wall. "Dead boy's pack got left behind and I looked over it in the night. Not a lot – water bottle, long length of twine, some metal wire, a spearhead, small medical kit, and some dry meat. I don't know what we're supposed to do with half that. His spear's nice, though…think I'll keep this."

"Improvise?" Sam offered. "I have a knife and a few odds and ends. Gimme the backpack, I'll carry it."

Sam tossed the pack over her shoulders and looped her old belt pack about her waist – in hindsight, she figured it would have been smarter to let Storm carry it. Now she felt like a pack mule to his hunter. As the sun had already begun to crawl over the canyon, she grabbed some of the charcoal from the dead fire's remains and wiped black streaks under her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Storm looked amused at the act. "New style for next year's parade?"

"Keeps the sun out," Sam replied, not feeling humorous in the somber morning. "I don't really care how I look."

The desert had already warmed up to over sixty degrees as the two climbed back out into the open air. Storm took the lead of the two, hiking along at a slow and measured pace that would give them the opportunity to scout out any terrain while not stumbling headfirst into other wandering tributes. The flowing stream that branched like a snake through the gorge provided an easy-to-follow navigational marker as the canyon stretched and weaved its way across the desert. With it close by, neither Storm nor Sam needed to drop everything and search for water – and it provided an easy source of food.

"Are you any good at fishing?" Storm popped the question as the late morning rolled in, with nary a peep from other tributes. The canyon clearly went on for a long distance. "I can see little fish here and there, but I'm not really all that good with spearing fish."

"We don't even have fish much back home," Sam peered over the water for a look into the moving current. "Do you have a lot of chance to fish in 12?"

Before Sam had the chance to remind herself how stupid the question sounded, Storm laughed and shook his head. "No, the only thing we fish is coal. And hungry kids starving in the streets, but that's normal, right?"

"I don't think that's a good way to get a lot of sponsors," Sam took the realistic angle, looking to stave off another ideology debate. "Regardless of right or wrong."

"I guess you're smarter than me at this stuff. Who's going to sponsor District 10 or 12 anyway?" Storm laughed, as if the idea was comical.

Sam forced herself to smile, despite the seriousness of that situation. "Well, not me probably. I only got a five in training and I don't think anybody would be blown away by my three minutes with Constantine Flickerman."

"Oh, you're not giving yourself enough credit," Storm chided as he made a halfhearted stab into the water. "I thought you were pretty funny up there. Crowd did, too."

"Laughing along with a guy with bad hair is funny?" Sam wondered why Storm bothered to compliment her. Nothing to gain out of that…besides her trust, which would be useful if he wanted to easily kill her. Surely he wasn't looking for buddies - what good did friends do when almost everyone had to die?

"It's not really about what we think, is it?" Storm shrugged. "If it was, I don't think anybody would be here. Maybe the Careers."

He laughed at his own poor joke before letting it fall away, gray eyes trailing over the river and scanning the canyon ahead. "I didn't see the count yesterday – did you get who was dead?"

"Nine or ten. Most of the middle districts…oh! The girl from 2, as well."

"That's a welcome change," Storm opined. "One less of them to worry about."

The two ate the dried meat as they hiked along, finishing half the prepared food as a meager substitution for lunch and left the rest for later. It didn't do much to quench Sam's raging appetite – her stomach keenly reminded her she hadn't really eaten since breakfast of the day before. Had it only been yesterday that she'd said her goodbye to Agrippa, back under the arena? Time really did fly with life on the line.

As the stream grew larger and more powerful, the canyon widened into a larger and broader ravine. Scalable slopes extended up to fifty feet on either side before the steeper cliffs shot off to the top, providing plenty of cover and chances to rest – but also hiding potentially wary tributes and other nasty surprises. Kicking over rocks revealed shed snake skins or dry rabbit dung. Dusty plants invited a respite to hunger, but without knowing for certain all the poisonous ones, each represented a big risk. Sam opted to avoid eating the flora altogether unless she was one hundred percent sure a plant wasn't a Gamesmaker trick to a nondescript death.

Storm had other things on his mind – namely, talking about anything and everything for as long as he could, damn the consequences.

"Ya know what would be great; the Capitol just sending in a bunch of hovercraft and machine-gunning us all. Why don't they just do that? It'd be easier, faster, probably entertaining…fade to black with that stupid video at the Reaping every year going 'War, _terrible_ war.'"

"Why does this matter so much to you?" Sam asked, already frustrated in less than a day with Storm's incessant conversation. "We're stuck here and most of us are going to die. I don't really see a change."

"Maybe their advertising team of Peacekeepers is listening," Storm shrugged. "You know, mix it up in the Quell in a couple years. They should pay me for this stuff."

"Does it, like, cross your mind that maybe the Careers are right behind us and listening?" Sam let her emotions challenge Storm, hoping to get him to pipe down. To her, he was a danger in more than just a knife in the back – by seemingly ignoring the prospect of the other tributes (after he had stalked Troop the prior night, to boot) he was inviting an ambush on both of them.

Storm reacted in the one way she hadn't thought – he simply looked at her and laughed. "You're so cute when you get all riled up and frustrated, especially with the charcoal under your eyes. You look like you're gonna attack the next thing that moves. Shoulda done that one with Constantine on stage."

Frustrated was a good way of putting it. No matter how much she tried to ignore him or get him to stop, Sam couldn't move the boy from 12. Instead he kept right along talking and leading the way, his confidence pushing out any sense of dangers. Strangely enough, for all her trepidations, Sam considered the alternative to Storm being a danger. He clearly didn't lack for attitude, but that carefree rebel outlook against the very Games that tried right now to kill them gave her a lift. Without him, she figured she'd be holed up in some rocky outcropping, panting fast and eyes scouring everything for the slightest anomaly.

She hated to admit it, but Storm made her feel that much safer, despite the very fact that he could murder her at any time.

"We're going to have to get something to eat eventually," she ventured around high noon as the two kept walking about the canyon. "I don't really want to subside on meat strips forever."

"Alright," Storm looked at the river. "I'm gonna see if I can get something out of there. Try not to run off with everything."

Sam took a seat on a warm, flat rock and laid out the two packs, taking a moment to collect herself as Storm walked down to the river bank and behind a patch of scrubby plants. Alone, she had time to collect her thoughts. The Gamesmakers hadn't killed anyone since Troop – and while the first day had been a cataclysm of tributes dying, surely they wouldn't wait forever to get another one.

Why was that? The audience couldn't go a day without seeing a child die? Where was the game in that – the fun, the sport, the _humanity_? To toss twenty-four kids out in a desert and think that it'd be a good idea to see which one lasted the longest if you gave them a bundle of weapons and told them to run around for cameras – how sick! It was a complete disregard of families, of loved ones and siblings and parents and all others who cared just a little bit for lives, rather than mindless entertainment and bets that treated kids like numbers. Maybe that was why Storm ranted so much – he'd already accepted this fact and deemed the Capitol and irreversible monster. Maybe it was.

Sam found herself on the verge of crying again and wiped away a tear from her smudged cheeks. She caught herself before the inevitable thought came out – _Way to make yourself look tough for the Capitol, Sammy._ Yet why was that even a problem? That a fifteen year-old couldn't have emotions when tossed into a life-or-death situation entirely out of their will? Only a statue wouldn't be feeling _something_.

A loud and pained scream broke the natural sounds of the canyon – a drawn-out and painful thing, not that of a wounded animal or even a man charging into combat, but that of a person being tortured to death on some terrible instrument. Sam jumped to her feet – other tributes around?

"Storm?" she shouted, looking about for her ally. If someone hadn't heard the scream, they wouldn't hear her now. "Storm?"

She dashed about the scrub just as he came running from the opposite direction, slamming straight into her and knocking her to the sand. "Storm! W-what was that? I was just sit…sitting there and then-"

"I don't know but I need your help right now," he countered, his voice rapid yet full of authority. "Just grab your knife and come on."

_What is going on?_ Sam thought frantically as she hurried behind him, knife in hand. Storm had his spear out in front of him as if he expected trouble, dashing into the river current and quickly moving to the other side. Sam had to fight the chest-deep water as she waded through, wondering all the time where the noise had come from and what had spooked Storm enough to knock him out of his casual stance.

Storm abruptly stopped as he approached a cluster of scrub, holding a finger to his lips and motioning for Sam to get down. He pointed around the bushes, motioning for her to have a look. She clutched the knife tightly – no telling what lay on the other side – and sneaked just enough of her head around to clear her eyes. Instinctively she gasped, holding in a shriek.

Stuck in a wide patch of quicksand was Gannet. The diminutive girl from District 4 had caught herself up to her waist in the muck, fighting with everything she had to get out of the trap – and only getting herself further in trouble. In the pool of gunky sand and water, if the Careers didn't find her, the sun would do the job – unless she cleared out of the quicksand soon, she would be in serious trouble.

Or whatever made the scream would clean up the place.

She couldn't just sit there. Sam took off around the bend as Storm hissed at her to stay put. Gannet looked up at the noise of her crossing the sand, yelping and recoiling at the sight of Sam's knife. Stuck in the quicksand, she was easy pickings for a predatory tribute.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" Sam tried to re-assure her, dropping the knife and showing her hands. "Okay? We just need to get you out of –"

Before she could continue her sentence, the tortured scream echoed across the canyon again. Gannet panicked, whimpering and struggling with her arms to gain some sort of traction against the trap. To Sam, the sound didn't even seem real – like a hundred women and children all being torn at together and letting out cries of pain and agony. A ranch hand had been gored by a steer on her father's property years back, and he'd let out a similar cry – as he lay dying in the fields. Sam had been one of the first to find him, and the image and his voice had burned themselves in her memory. Now they came rushing back – but instead of a dead man from District 10 roping wandering cattle, something far more dangerous and elusive was coming out to battle.

"Sam, get her out of there fast, we have to move!" Storm dashed after her, careful to avoid the quicksand and spear ready for action.

"Then help me get her out!" Sam spat back. "Do you see like a log or anything to grab onto?"

Quicksand – just sand and water, mixed together. Sam let her mind go to work in trying to solve the problem. Although District 10 didn't have such dangers like this, it seemed relatively simple enough on its own. If Gannet couldn't pull herself free, something must have been catching her and holding on. The murky goop would do that – but since it was just dirt and liquid, it would hold on unless stirred up. That was how she'd have gotten stuck in the first place – her weight bringing her down against the quicksand. If she could negate the pulling force, it seemed simple enough that she could work her away across the top of the goop.

"Gannet, listen to me," Sam kneeled down by the edge of the trap. "Can you kick your legs any, just side to side?"

The girl's fear was plastered all over her face as she let out a small nod. Of course, District 4 – she'd had to have been swimming all her life. Sam figured that was a start.

"Alright, just keep kicking. Stir up the stuff," Sam slowed things down, trying to talk Gannet through the process before whatever horrible thing that was coming showed up. "Once you think you have a little space, see if you can get a leg up and over the surface. I need you to try and crawl your way out of the quicksand."

"Don't try to grab her," Storm cautioned, eyes alert for danger. "She'll just pull you in, and I can't help you both."

"Come on, just a foot," Sam ignored Storm – he was _not_ helping at all. Granted, something was making that horrible noise, and no doubt the Gamesmakers were intent on sending it right down their throats. Still, they couldn't just _leave_ Gannet behind.

Of course, maybe Storm could.

"I'm trying!" Gannet panted, pulling her heel up and out of the surface.

"That's it, now just keep going little by little. Just swim your way out."

Sam hit gold there. Gannet took the suggestion literally, using her free food like a flipper and paddling it on the surface of the quicksand. Progress was slow, but she had made some headway – enough to bring her entire left leg out and cross half the distance to freedom.

"That's it, almost there," Sam encouraged, trying to keep a positive outlook.

"Sam…" Storm warned.

"Can you just hold on a second?" Sam felt her frustration rising with the boy from 12. Couldn't he see she was trying?

"Sam, we _have no time, _go now!"

Sam lifted her head up, about to say something angry and laden with bitterness when she saw the problem just as she heard it, romping out of a large hole in the canyon wall. For a third time, the pained scream trumpeted out across the canyon like a tortured epitaph – and now it had shown up in person before the three tributes, angry, enraged, and ready for a fight.

The Gamesmakers really _did_ want another death.


	17. First Blood

Back during the Dark Days, District 10 had passed tradition down through word of mouth and oral histories. The cataloging of the Capitol's grievances against the land of cattle and ranches had never been forgotten, despite how some districts fared in the modern day. It was said that there were all types of muttations – or mutts, as the districts referred to them as – that the Capitol enjoyed spawning for the hardship of the rebels. Some were physical in nature – they killed, or destroyed, or harassed. These ranged from small and poisonous insects to larger meat shields that chewed up bullet fire in order to distract rebel military operations. Others played on mental fears and worries – Jabberjays fit this example to a tee, with their ability to record and disseminate information.

The worst mutts, however, combined both into a psychological and physical monstrosity – something born of horror and forged in pits of nightmares. Whatever the Capitol's most terrifying minds produced, the spawn of their labors feasted on fear and pain. The scars they left sometimes never healed.

As Sam got her first look at Storm's predicament, she knew which type of abomination the Gamesmakers had unleashed into the arena.

"Sam, go! I'll hold it off long enough and then make it to you!" Storm shouted, spear in a defensive position.

"Not without Gannet!" Sam countermanded, on her feet but unwilling to abandon the girl from District 4.

The mutt that scuttled before Storm came across as unlike anything Sam could have imagined as it unleashed another one of its terrifying screams – a death howl of human suffering and pain compounded a thousand times over. The best she could think of was a giant scorpion – an eight-legged creature with a hardened black carapace that reached up to seven feet high at the top of its tail, bulky enough to present a glaring and deadly problem facing off against Storm. Physically, the mutt had a decisive advantage – a powerful, spear-like stinger the size of a fist and as sharp as a scalpel complemented two thick ripping claws that snapped and cracked at the three tributes. As was the Capitol's tradition, however, those were the _least_ unsettling attributes to worry about.

Human skin – human _muscle_ – coated the limbs of the creature, stretching and straining with each movement. Each of the legs didn't end with the usual claw of normal scorpions, but with something that seemed closest to an armored human hand, stuck forever with fingers fused together. It was like a lab-grown chimera that had been thrown out and rejected due to sheer dismay, forced into the desert to overwhelm anyone unfortunate enough to look on to its cobbled-together self. Far more unnerving was its _face_ – if its front could be referred to as such. Normal scorpions, the kind that fit into Sam's hand back on District 10's ranches, sported eight small eyes and little pincers – this instead wore two blood-red irises set in cow-like white orbs, staring at Storm and Sam from above what could only be called a _mouth_. The screams were the worst – without any hindrances in the way of its shouts, it was clearly obvious what the Capitol had done with this creature.

They had implanted vocal chords.

_They tortured people_, Sam thought in an instant as it moaned and howled at Storm. _They tortured innocent people, and then recorded their screams and forced it into this sad monster_.

The eyes of the scorpion mutt reflected such a sentiment – despite their color, something about them spoke of agony and regret, as if the beast wanted to do anything but slaughter the tributes before it. Yet the animal brain of it pushed the mutt on – snapping and sparring with Storm as it sized up the best avenue for attack against the spear-wielding human.

Gannet had cleared all but the lower half of her right leg out of the quicksand – and Sam figured that was close enough. She'd have to risk pulling the girl out – they had no time, not anymore.

"Gannet, give me your hand, okay?" Sam braved through the fear of the moment. "Give me your hand, I'm gonna help you out and then we have to run."

A thunderous _wham!_ sounded out as the scorpion mutt went for a kill strike, slamming its stinger against a rock like an artillery round. Storm narrowly avoided the attack, slipping by just at the last minute. The rock exploded with force, showering bits of debris everywhere. The mutt grew enraged, swinging its claws like maces over Storm's head. One bad move by the boy from District 12, and he'd be heading home in a box.

Sam grabbed Gannet's wrist, planting her feet against a rock and hoping for the best. Gannet kicked her right foot against the muck, generating enough disturbance in the quicksand to produce some give. With straining effort from both the girls, the quicksand gave way and slopped back into the pool. Sam and Gannet both rocked back into the sandy desert floor, gasping for breath and panting from exertion. Neither had time to waste.

A splatter of blood splashed across Sam's face as she got up; horrified, she turned towards the fight. Storm had scored a lucky hit – his spear had gone clean through one of the human skinned-legs of the grotesque mutt, shearing it off at the second joint. The beast screamed – a torturous thing that forced Sam to squeeze her eyes shut and clamp her hands over her ears.

"C'mon!" Gannet pleaded in panicked fashion, dripping mud and grabbing Sam's hand. As the two prepared to run out of the area, the mutt slammed its tail down twice next to Storm, throwing him off balance and allowing it to charge. With a rush and a roar, it snatched the boy from District 12 up in one of its claws, preparing for the death blow.

"No! Storm!" Sam cried out, shoving off of Gannet and picking up the nearest thing – a sharp and heavy rock. It wouldn't kill something that size, but the only hope she had of saving Storm was to distract it…to get it paying attention to _her_. She couldn't lose Storm – no matter what he'd said and done, she couldn't let him get crushed or gored to death by that Capitol-built abomination.

In a rush of adrenaline-fueled courage, Sam hurled the rock with as much force as she could straight at the scorpion mutt's eyes. It was a near miss, but still managed to strike the beast straight in its gaping mouth. _That_ had done the trick – with an inhuman, carnal snarl, it tossed Storm aside like a rag doll and charged headlong at Sam and Gannet. The two dashed for cover as the mutt made mincemeat out of several large stones.

"Gannet, get across the river, to the other side, run!" Sam shouted, looking back for Storm. "I'll get over there as soon as I can!"

That slight hesitation proved Sam's undoing. As Gannet made a beeline for the water, the mutt had just enough time to home in on its new target. A huge claw snatched Sam around the torso, picking her up and slamming her against the ground. She had just enough time to figure out the situation and look deep into the mutt's saddened eyes before it unloaded with the tail stinger. Even as she dodged her head and as much of her upper body as she could muster out of the way, the speed of the creature blinded her – in a flash, it sent the barb straight through her left shoulder and penetrating out the other side.

Sam screamed in pain, cramming her eyes shut as she tried to block out the agony of the blow. Bright crimson blood spurted out as the scorpion yanked its barb out, still pinning her to the ground as it prepared to finish off its quarry. Sam's eyes clouded up as if seeing the scene in a dream state – the mutt roared a forlorn cry as it arched its tail, ready to kill. In a flash, something interfered – a blur of brown ripped into the scorpion, driving deep into its left eye. The mutt roared in pain, dropping Sam and scuttling back as it tried to dislodge the spear that Storm had buried beyond the spearhead.

"I got you!" Storm lifted up Sam with both arms as she lolled in his grasp, head drooping and vision skewed. Warm blood lapped at her chest and arms, making her feel cold from the loss of fluid. The gory impact of the scorpion's stinger hadn't left a mess, but it had punched deep and hard – straight through the shoulder's muscle and just missing the bone. Sam was in no condition to fight or even move.

The scorpion mutt had its own problems now, ignoring the fleeing tributes as it slammed its tail down to dislodge the spear. Eventually it worked the weapon out, screaming and moaning all the way as the beast retreated back into its lair. A mixture of red human blood and brown fluid from the mutt left a battle scene behind on the sandy earth – the Capitol had certainly gotten its entertainment for the day.

Storm forded the river with Sam in his arms, stopping just long enough to get a glimpse of the mutt's retreat back to its hole. It didn't like water or it didn't like him – either way it was gone for now. The girl in his arms was a different story – Sam clutched onto consciousness as the pain eroded her will, threatening to overcome her with fatigue and agony. Gannet rushed up as Storm found the other bank, dripping wet from washing the quicksand off in the river and eyes scarred with worry. She had forged a deal with Sam – not with Storm, who could certainly kill her easily if he wanted to.

The boy had other ideas.

Sam heard the words around her as if through cotton, just catching Storm's authoritative commands: "The pack's got a medical kit, go get it now."

Gannet let her eyes fall onto the wound, seeing the blood – and shockingly to Sam fell straight into action, as if heeding a calling to save the only person who saw her as an ally in the Games. She made a break for the pack as Storm tore off his undershirt, ripping it into a long strand to bind about Sam's shoulder and stem the bleeding.

To Sam, the entire thing seemed surreal. _What is he doing,_ she thought. _He could kill me right now. Not much use keeping me around…injured, half-dead, only not crying 'cuz this hurts too much. Just let me go. Go win. I can't do anything else now…the Gamesmakers and their five score were right_._ Just let me go. Wish I could have seen the stars again, though_.

Gannet hurried up with the medical kit, unraveling the large bandage to rip it in two. With a speed and grace that seemingly defied her diminutive stature, she compressed both makeshift pads to either side of the entry wounds and wrapped Storm's torn shirt tightly about that, making a fishing knot in the fabric that would allow Sam's circulation to keep flowing but would keep pressure on the wounds.

With a start, Sam coughed violently, a throaty, deep thing. She couldn't get enough air! It was like someone had cut off the ventilation, ripping out the oxygen from her lungs. She took small, short breaths that did almost nothing, providing just enough to keep going – _just let it end already! I'm already dead! _Her chest heaved in and out with labored motions, grasping for any and all available oxygen to keep her going. Red blood began staining the shoulder bandage; it was holding off extreme blood loss, but Sam no doubt was going to be in a battle to stay conscious.

Gannet inhaled sharply as Sam began to gasp and clutch for breath. She pulled Sam's knife from the fist that had clutched around it in a death grip, fishing a long piece of clear tubing from the medical kit and giving Storm a serious look.

"Do you have a water bottle or something that can hold water?" Gannet asked Storm quietly, her eyes focused on some point far in the distance.

"What does that matter?" he asked sharply – medical care was _not_ his expertise.

"We have sharks in District 4," Gannet replied, her voice squeaking off each syllable as she steeled herself for the next step. She shrugged off Storm's accusatory tone, readying herself solely for trying to save a life. "Sometimes they attack people diving for fish and hurt them. I need to try something or I dunno if she's gonna be okay. Do you have a water bottle?"

"Yeah," Storm nodded, still unsure of Gannet's intent. "I'll go fill it up. Gimme a sec."

Sam felt Gannet's hand close around hers, sparking her to instantly clamp her fingers down. She needed _something _to hold on to as pictures and clouds crowded her vision – was this how death worked? As she gasped for breath, images flooded in – back on the plains, she sat amongst farm animals and warm bursts of prairie wind. Cattle lowed softly as herds grazed on her father's ranch, giving her the time and peace of mind to simply watch. That was the good thing with District 10, in some aspects – if you had some measure of wealth, like the Parkers did, raising the animals allowed for plenty of downtime. They knew how to take care of themselves, and it didn't take much to-

_Oh God! What is she doing?_

"What the hell are you doing?" Storm nearly swatted Gannet's arm away as she drove the tip ever so slightly into Sam's underarm, below the armpit and just above a rib. Beads of blood trickled out from the incision, drawing up into a puddle on Sam's sweat-soaked skin.

"My brother got bit by a shark," Gannet closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself a deep breath in to stay calm and shed the pressure of the moment. Relating the story to Storm eased her mind and allowed her to divert her anxiety elsewhere – after all, Sam had certainly saved her life by pulling her from the quicksand. She owed her ally a life. "A big one. My dad and I were the only other ones on the boat…blood had got in into the stuff in the chest. He and I had to do this…I'm sorry, it's gonna hurt."

Gannet picked around with the knife tip, finding the right spot in Sam's flesh and digging the blade in deeper. She grabbed the measure of tubing quickly and worked it into the incision. Sam gasped at the pain, her head still swimming with cloudy thoughts and now feeling the pulsing drum of fire erupting through her underarm and chest. The girl from District 4 didn't give up despite Sam's weak cries of fear and hurt, working the tube in until a small amount of blood began to trickle up. She allowed herself a brief smile – at least one small success had gone right through the ordeal – and stuck the other end of the tube into the full water bottle. They'd just have to make do getting water the old-fashioned way.

"I need to hold this down onto her so it doesn't go anywhere or slip," Gannet looked up at Storm, acknowledging him again now that she'd pulled off the procedure she'd only had a hand in once before. A lifetime of fine work with complicated knots and fishing from moving boats had paid off in a rather unlikely manner in the arena. "Is there…tape or something in that kit?"

Storm shook his head, still confused over what Gannet had done – regardless, Sam had caught a breath and no longer was gasping for air. "Just a couple sticky bandages. What'd you do anyway?"

"Okay, I'll use those. She has blood in her chest and it's pressuring her lung. That's what happened to my brother; that's how my dad explained it. I'm happy that worked…sort of. Can you cut her shirt off? I need to stick this tube to her."

She handed the knife the Storm as Sam's eyes followed the motions. _What was she talking about?_ Gannet's words had passed right over the hazy scene, but her sense of calm in the heat of the moment – where had that come from? Sam had picked Gannet as just a little girl thrown into circumstances, yet she'd probably just saved her life. Great, now she owed everyone – Storm had been there for her after she'd accidentally killed off Troop with the burning brand the night before, and now the unlikeliest of tributes had just pulled her back from what she'd figured had been a terminal injury.

_Guess the Gamesmakers will be unhappy_.

Sam was only vaguely aware of Storm cutting through her shirt, leaving only her underwear and the bandage tie on her shoulder guarding her upper torso from the heat of the afternoon desert sun. Gannet wrapped the sticky bandages as best she could around the tube, hoping that infection wouldn't set in. The dry desert air provided less likelihood of disease – and besides, the Gamesmakers couldn't find a tribute slowly rotting away from sickness to be exciting, could they?

Sam caught Storm arguing with Gannet over where to move her, the two trying to stay away from Careers or any more mutts in her condition. It all blended together as her eyes drifted up to the sun and the sky – how strange it all was. Was this how it was supposed to be in the arena? Death around every corner, doing your best to avoid getting sent home in a pine box with each passing minute?

_You shoulda just let me die, Gannet. Now you and Storm have to stay here with me_.

Before Sam had time to debate the merits of her survival, welcome unconsciousness dove in, clouding her with soft and mutt-free sleep.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Okay, so that was kinda unscientific. Don't try that thoracostomy procedure at home!**_

_**Lemme know what you think about the fight scene – good, bad, need more action, freakier mutts? Tell me in the review section.**_


	18. Alliance

**Training Center**

The Training Center always seemed to metamorphose during the actual Games in Dallas's view. Without the tension of children facing life and death, without the frantic preparations to make tributes ready for cameras and interviews, it was a much quieter place. The entire team (minus tributes) still used it as their base of operations during the Games, of course, but it lost much of its luster without the kids who made these "ceremonies" what they were. Some of the floors already stood vacant – Districts 3, 6, and 7 had no more stake in this year's Games. Their teams could stay on to the end – should their tributes have made alliances before their deaths, they could still fight on for another district's cause – but this early in the event, there was no reason to stick around.

Dallas had plenty of reason, however. District 10 didn't often get tributes who lasted too long – especially recently, with District 1 having cleaned up well in the past decade – but this year had proven a turn for the better. With both Laredo and Sam having made their ways away from the Cornucopia alive – and with Sam having forged some semblance of an alliance – he had work to do.

Cheyenne did too, but she didn't want to acknowledge that.

"Where you goin'?" the victor of the 76th Games lounged about on a couch, television streaming coverage now that night had settled in the arena. Most mentors didn't work much past sunset, what with the Capitol's audiences often gathering in rambunctious parties, except to send down parachutes and track their tributes. Cheyenne had taken the easy way out, setting up an electronic link straight to the Control Center so she could perform minor actions like that without even leaving.

"Gonna go have a chat," Dallas replied, ignoring the cigarette butt that Cheyenne flicked to the floor. "You should really quit those things."

"Nothing else to blow my money on," Cheyenne coughed. "Guess I could try booze. I'll look into that. Who you chatting with?"

Dallas rolled his eyes – who else was actively still involved at night, apart from the Gamesmakers and their staff? "Since we were both paying attention at Control earlier today, our girl picked up an alliance. I'm gonna go see if I can do anything with that."

Cheyenne laughed heartily. "With Haymitch and Rory? Lemme know how that goes. Ask Haymitch if he can send any of his drink this way."

As Dallas turned towards the elevator, Cheyenne added another bit of wisdom. "If you're going to Finnick as well, don't bring Augusta. 'We' were out earlier and this one rich schmuck mentioned Finnick. Her face was hilarious. It was like a poorly drawn squirrel in mismatched pastel colors. Just stupidly funny."

Dallas had strategically planned to hit up District 4's mentor Finnick Odair _first_; for all he knew, Haymitch Abernathy of District 12 would be in a horrible state of drunkenness. Rory Hawthorne took care of most of District 12's solicitation in years prior, and with his nephew in the games, he'd probably be working in overtime. Haymitch, on the other hand, had plenty of free alcohol to keep him company. Two-to-one odds would probably win the man over, however.

The elevator ran quietly and quickly in the Training Center now. Six quick stops, and District 4's floor opened up into view. It looked exactly the same as the tenth floor – same walls, same colors, same arrangements, everything. The floor was much quieter without someone as loud and boisterous as Cheyenne, however – Finnick's fellow mentor, a plain young woman named Jetty, rarely talked to anybody and kept to herself. She had a habit for leaving during the nights and walking about the Capitol – a trait that she'd inadvertently been able to turn towards sponsorship collection. Dallas figured she'd be out, and with most of the native Capitol people always out and about at nights, Finnick would probably be the only one home.

That proved to be wrong, as a bottle of liquor rolled about on the floor and male voices came from the den. Apparently Haymitch had been sober enough to have the same idea – or at least had figured it out while intoxicated.

"There he is," Haymitch belched as Dallas turned into the main living quarters of the fourth floor, finding Finnick sprawled out on a couch, his bronze hair loose and untidy. "Where have you been, big boy? I thought you'd have kicked back ages ago."

The bottle rolling about the floor had been Haymitch's previous; he had already reloaded with a fresh round of whiskey. For his rampant alcoholism, the man from District 12 hadn't aged too badly; his hair had grown into a dark state of gray and ran all over the place, but his face was still easily recognizable as the victor of the Hunger Games nearly a half century ago. For being in his mid-60s, Haymitch had kept himself in decent shape.

Compared to Finnick, however, both he and Dallas were heavily outclassed. Finnick had ignored aging into his mid-40s, keeping up and maintaining the youthful yet chiseled look that had wealthy Capitol denizens fawning over him. Although Dallas knew he had little sympathy for the strange people who called this place home, the mentor from District 4 had milked suitors every year for all they were worth. The district never seemed to go without at least one contender in the Games every year – partially due to Finnick's unquestioned ability to bring in sponsorship funding and allocate it as needed. For Haymitch and Dallas, he was now a valuable asset.

"Has the princess up there decided to kick the habit yet?" Haymitch rambled on, taking a swig from his bottle of whiskey. "She's gonna die before I do at that rate."

"She'll probably get around to it when you do," Dallas smiled good-naturedly, keenly aware he was the youngest and thus least experienced in the room. That spoke of the combined years of mentoring around – Dallas was in his nineteenth year after winning the 79th Games, yet Finnick and Haymitch had been at this far longer. "I thought I was gonna have to drag you up to this."

"Well, you know what they say about old dogs," Haymitch mused. "They uh…actually I don't know what they say about old dogs."

"I'm glad we're holding everything together so nicely," Dallas chuckled. "Finnick, good to see you – haven't had a chance yet, all the running around. How's things on the homefront?"

Finnick was keenly aware of the game at this point – one tribute of his had joined the Career pack in Cascade, and the other had worked her way into a band of misfits. Neither had the inside track to survival – but Gannet stood a much better chance in her group than Cascade did against the likes of Hadrian. Besides, dealing with Dallas and Haymitch was infinitely more pleasing than having to hash out details with Enobaria of District 2 and Cashmere of District 1, who stayed on as mentors despite having numerous younger victors who could have replaced them. Neither were particularly appealing types.

"Firth's the age where you get concerned about this kind of stuff as a parent," Finnick answered, referencing his only son. "But I guess neither of you need to worry about that. Annie…she's day to day. She doesn't do so well this time of the year."

Before Dallas could let the awkwardness of Finnick's line sink out, Haymitch came in with a save. "Well that's a sunny outlook."

"About as much as your happy disposition," Finnick turned the conversation towards friendlier places. "At least you've got the refreshments. Jetty ordered them all out of here; she's got some sort of death wish against a bottle."

Haymitch laughed and thrust the bottle at Finnick. The three mentors spent the next several minutes dragging on small talk and passing the whiskey about. Dallas didn't favor drink much as well, but in the social situation of boozing the other two veterans of the Games up, he'd have a tactical advantage to work with. Most of the mentors and victors knew each other and considered their relationships friendly; some had gone beyond that, such as with Finnick and his wife and fellow victor, Annie Cresta (although Finnick still regularly got about the Capitol; Dallas had long since suspected Annie knew and approved for the sake of the tributes. She represented the best of the victors' club, even if she wasn't all there in the head.)

However, when it was down to trying to save one tribute or the other, Dallas would do what it took to give himself some leverage, no matter how much he considered these two men friends. Intoxication proved one of the easier methods.

"Had a bit of a close call today," Dallas began to steer the conversation in the necessary direction. "Apart from other things. I thought Cheyenne was going to pick a fight with Johanna Mason in the Control Room earlier. Girl spats."

"Why is Johanna even still here?" Finnick wondered. "She, uh…doesn't really have any business left this year."

"Free food," Haymitch hiccupped. "My best guess. Can't eat trees back in 7. But I guess we all had a little close call today."

The three went silent for a minute, staring at Claidius Templesmith and Constantine Flickerman on the television screen debating something irrelevant. Actually working into what they had to negotiate proved to be tougher than expected.

"How's yours doing, Finnick?" Dallas ventured an inquiry to break the ice.

"Cascade's doing the usual. Hanging with guys from 2 and 1," Finnick offered. "I didn't really like him much coming here and during training…his family's got money compared to most of the people back in 4. Bit snotty. But we're mentors, right; can't really make that kinda call."

"What a nice worry to have; too rich," Haymitch intervened. "Look at me saying that. Ha! Maybe I'll buy a pink-haired dog and go strutting about the streets too. Ya' think cat whiskers would look good?"

"That'd definitely go well here. Maybe you'll start a new trend," Dallas chuckled. "How 'bout your people, Haymitch. How's Rory taking it?"

"He works a bit harder than me," Haymitch eyed the bottle as if it might run away. "But I guess we're not all that different than your situation, huh? Or yours Finnick. At least one half of it."

"Guess so," Finnick confirmed. "Guess that's why we're here."

Dallas had his pitch ready. "That other kid of yours, Cascade…if he's sticking around with Hadrian, how long do you think he's gonna last when they inevitably break up?"

"Probably not too long," Finnick admitted, scratching his head. "But that was easy to see a mile away. He's got nowhere near the kind of size that kid from 2 does. No real brains, so forget about trying to work a decent strategy. There's no way I'm going to go try and talk with Enobaria and Vespasian about their little band, either…neither of them are, say, 'nice.' Enobaria could really use a dentist."

Haymitch guffawed at that diagnosis. "Seriously, who keeps their teeth like that? She's just such a fine human being."

"Well, then it looks like your girl has a bit better odds," Dallas moved on, homing in on the point. "But she's going to need a little help. That goes for mine, and Haymitch's who are…well, together. At this point."

"Pretty sure yours just got bailed out," Haymitch said, taking another drink.

"Pretty sure that was mutual," Dallas responded. "Don't gotta keep score. But right now, if you're one of those Capitol people, it looks like District 1's primed for another sweep like last year. I think we can all agree that has to change."

"I thought you were good at this stuff," Haymitch laughed. "Out there, they say 'oh, Dallas, he's the nice guy. Always _listens_ to my problems. Not like you, Haymitch, you just drink and tell me I look dumb. Where's Rory?' That kind of thing. You're all enthusiastic still. Got that youthful vigor."

"Heh. Well, I can only go so far," Dallas acknowledged, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But Finnick…you have a bit more pull than Haymitch or I."

Finnick sighed, kicking off a couch pillow. "You know, I get enough of these Capitol people trying to get favors without me actually trying myself. That'd just make it worse."

"Yeah, but think about it," Dallas leaned over, eyes up and moving to capitalize as Finnick's mind still swam around in whiskey. "If we can get our three a little help, maybe they can run with that. They survived that mutt today, that's something. They're not just hanging out in the wind, ready to get killed off. Maybe they just need a chance…maybe that girl of yours, Gannet, she goes home to whoever her family is back in your district. My girl, Sam, seems to like her. Haymitch's guy does too."

"Think you mixed that up," Finnick noted, already sensing Dallas applying the pressure and not seeing an escape route. "It's your kid who's the centerpiece. She's the leader. She's the one not leaving anybody behind."

Finnick let his eyes wander around the room before picking up the pillow and tossing it back on the couch. "Alright. You're not gonna let that go, I'm not really sober, and you're probably right. Annie wouldn't be happy with me not pulling my weight when I had the chance to, anyway. I'll see what I can do."

"Who needs sobriety anyway?" Haymitch belched. "Aw. Now you two are gonna try and make me feel guilty. Fine. I'll make Rory do more work. There, I'm a team player."


	19. Sam and Storm

_Thoughts swam in Sam's mind as she swirled through the depths of unconsciousness. Formless creatures of shadow and mist taunted her, teased her about certain death headed her way. Voices born of disembodied souls laughed at her small successes, reminding her of the long way to go – and the greater dangers still lurking in her way. So she'd been able to avoid the sharp sting of a mutt – what would happen when the Gamesmakers decided to up the ante, or actual tributes got involved? _

_Stupid girl! You're too dumb to be a victor. Too WEAK. _

_President Octavian dove out from the mists, grabbing Sam by her arms and refusing to let go. "What a great opportunity we have here in the Games, you tributes…to represent your districts, what an honor! I'll be sure to send my regards as you go back home in a box!"_

"_Let me go!" Sam shouted at the ghostly figure of the youthful president, straining at his grip. "Please, let me go!"_

"_That's not how it works. You're just a tribute. Entertainment. A stupid peasant from the districts," Octavian laughed hauntingly. "I have all the power here, Samantha! My word says who lives and dies – if I don't like you, I kill you! Don't you like how that works? You're already dead! It's great television!"_

"_No, no, please," Sam pleaded. _

"_I think so! Samantha, Sam…stop, you'll hurt yourself!"_

Sam woke with a start, her eyes searching about rapidly. No evil President Octavian to kill her. No ghosts. Just a dream…a stupid dream. She wasn't dead. Yet. Just a starry night sky, a crescent moon hanging lazily in the dark. Storm stood over her as he shook her shoulder, his eyes showing relief as she awoke.

"I thought you were having a seizure or something," Storm exhaled.

Sam looked about, pulling on her arms that refused to move as she wanted them to. Twine tied her wrists together to a rock, holding her in place – she realized her shoulders hurt bad, as well. The tube in her side had been pulled out, replaced with a large bandage that swathed her entire chest area in wrappings.

"Why am I tied to a rock?" she garbled up in inquiry.

"You were trying to pick at your bandages while you were out," Storm said sheepishly, quickly loosening the twine and letting her wrists go. "Sorry. Gannet said we had to keep you from hurting yourself. Another kid walked by this afternoon…dunno which, I think he's the guy from 11. Didn't see us, and it's been hours, so I assume he missed us. You were gone for a little over a day."

That didn't sound right to her. A day? Her dreams had only made it feel like an hour…and the encounter with the mutt was far too fresh in her mind. For that matter, why did she even feel as good as she did now? It wasn't _that_ good, but she figured she'd be passed out from blood loss and pain.

As if reading her mind, Storm held up a clear, empty hypodermic needle, examining the interior and tossing it to the sandy grown. "Someone must really like you in the Capitol. That floated down this morning by parachute; gave you a shot of it then. I guess it's some sort of healing remedy or something, since when we went to wash off your bandages and put them back on, your wounds were already starting to get pink stuff around them. Probably cost a fortune. It's weird…the Capitol's okay sending us that kind of thing when we're in their arena, but they can't for the districts normally? Oh, here, saved you some of today's food…you haven't eaten in a while, so just take it slow."

"Thanks," Sam took a piece of cooked fish and the water bottle that he offered, letting her eyes fall to the ground. She owed him more than simple thanks…after all, he'd pulled the mutt away, distracted it long enough for him to pick her up and get her out of trouble. That much she had remembered. "Thanks for that and…for saving me back there. I guess yesterday."

Storm dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You woulda done the same for me. You did for Gannet, but she was the one treating you, so I guess you two are equal. Heck, you distracted it when it was about to squish me. You don't owe me anything."

"No, I do," Sam began, trying to get up to sit but groaning in the throbbing from her shoulder. She relented and fell back to the sand.

"You don't," Storm reiterated, lying down next to her and reassuringly placing his hand on hers. "You're just fine how you are."

Something about the way Storm said the line sent shivers down Sam's back, more than the cold night was able to elicit through her jacket. For all his idealism and pent-up anger at the Capitol, maybe Storm did have a soft side to him. The way he clutched his fingers as she shook in the cold, moved closer to her to keep her company in her most vulnerable…it struck her as very different than the selfish idea she'd come up with for his personality.

"We're gonna catch colds out here," Storm noticed Sam's goosebumps crawling up her arm, looking about for some source of heat. "C'mere. Gotta stay warm somehow. I don't think it'd kill the Gamesmakers to turn up the temp."

"What about Gannet?" Sam asked.

"She's smarter than me," Storm pointed off a few feet, where Gannet lay buried in a clump of eucalyptus leaves, effectively forming a bed spread and blanket. "So I'm just gonna do things the old-fashioned way. Besides, I have first watch tonight."

Storm moved over to Sam, picking her up easily and wrapping his jacket around the two of them. Crude, but effective – body heat would have to do to ward off the chilly desert air. Sam tightened herself into as small a ball as she could, wincing through the pain of her shoulder. It was still cold, but she'd manage…and Storm's muscular body blocked out the bursts of wind that traveled down the canyon. She was glad she'd teamed up, glad she hadn't rejected him out of fear or anxiety…it would be terrible to be alone now.

"Aren't you going to be tired?" Sam piped up after a few minutes of silence.

"We didn't do much today besides make a new spear out of a straight piece of eucalyptus wood and the spare spearhead, and Gannet had most of the watch last night. She's handier than I originally gave her credit for," Storm shrugged, holding her tightly to his chest. "Besides…you sleep when you're dead, right? Just seems a lot more applicable when it's hitting you in the face."

He'd said it was for mutual warmth, but Sam found something greater in his embrace as the two huddled together under the desert evening. He could have just left her to die, or let her lie on the desert now, worked to keep himself going…yet he took the time and attention to make sure _she_ was alright. Sam had stopped questioning his motives, but now it was her own feelings she needed to ponder. This boy from District 12…maybe it was the imminent prospect of death that heightened things, but she felt warmth within her that only now had revealed itself.

"What kind of chance do you think any of us have?" Sam tried to push the conflicting emotions away.

"I dunno," Storm sighed. "Still got four Careers, not to mention whatever the Gamesmakers want to throw at us. Nobody died today, and the last one was Troop showing up on yesterday's 'evening news,' so ya gotta think they're cooking up something to keep things moving with fourteen kids still kicking. But…"

He looked down on her, his eyes taking a far more serious look. He ran a finger through a strand of her dark hair, curling it around and sliding it behind her ear. "But…if it comes down to the three of us, I hope you're the last one standing."

Sam looked up at his face, unsure of whether she was still suffering after-effects of the scorpion strike. Was he serious, or just deluding her?

"What do you mean?" she ventured cautiously.

"District 12's no place to live a life, Sam," Storm laid out his feelings. "My mother and sister both died years ago from a fever that ran through the area. My aunt and one of my uncles got laid out by it, too. My father's always got this vacant look on his face…he's lost just about everything but me and my uncle Rory. He's always had that. Back when he was a kid, his best friend at the time, a girl named Katniss, was reaped into the Games a long time ago. She didn't make it back. I think my father might have given up right then, decided that this life wasn't all it was said to be. I dunno if she, the Katniss girl, was unlucky or lucky."

"I see starving kids on the streets, skinny crying babies, coal miners like my dad who just go off to the mines without a single hope for a future besides getting through another day. There's never going to be a better tomorrow for them. Sure, if I came back I'd have money as a victor, and Rory makes sure my dad and I are always fed and stuff. But what good does that do? District 12's always going to be the butt end of nowhere. There's always going to be those starving kids dying in front of us from hunger. We can't stave it off. Can't fight it. Can't beat it. Do I really want to go back to that? To have to live my life with the nightmares from this arena that are sure to stick with me if I'm the victor, and forced back to a place where everything around me is in poverty while these people in the Capitol live with luxuries District 12 can't even sniff?"

"Besides," he concluded. "I've got to admit it to myself out loud. I might be able to kill some faceless person like the kids from 11 or whatever, or those murder-crazy Careers, but someone like you, bright and with all the good things the rest of us don't have…I couldn't do it. I can't do it. Won't. I didn't come into the Games that way…I figured I'd just play along. But now that I'm here, I don't really want to play this stupid game anymore. The Hunger Games don't end at the arena, Sam. District 12 knows them every day. If this is the way human beings are supposed to be, than I don't call myself human."

Sam let the words filter down into her. Storm had essentially just conceded that he had no desire to win, and thus survive…that he'd had enough of living at all. She wanted to run, to shake him and tell him he was thinking too shallow, too idealistic and zealous. Yet she looked within herself; she wanted to win, sure, go home and have a nice life, play with Clara and Clay and sit tight with Jake under the summer moon. But that all seemed so trivial compared to Storm's reasoning. District 10 had more than its share of poor people – it was third in tesserae recipients in Panem, including the likes of Clay – but compared to the bleak picture Storm painted of District 12, it seemed like paradise.

Maybe there were fates worse than death on your own terms.

"I didn't really have any dreams growing up," Storm apparently hadn't finished his line of thought, as he kept his eye skyward and neglected anyone besides Sam who could be listening. "Because my uncle Rory's a victor, he gave some of his money to us, and we had more than most people. Still, I didn't have a lot of options. Didn't really pick up any good skills…figured I'd just go work in the mines like everyone else. That's all we have. Sure, my dad taught me how to set a snare, shoot an arrow. Most kids in 12 never get that far…but what does that do? Makes me little better than the animals."

"Thing is, when you see these Capitol types in their hovercraft and eating their five-course meals, you have to wonder what came before. If this is what we were always meant to do…to be so unequal, for the rich to subjugate the majority. Just doesn't seem like there's anything to have faith about. Nothing to put your hope in. I can't blame anyone for giving up in the game of life."

Sam sniffed in the air as quiet descended upon the two. The night wind had died down, leaving the chirping of a cicada as the only harmony in the silent evening.

"You see those seven stars?" Sam pointed up to a bright constellation, letting Storm have time to follow her outstretched finger. "That's the drinking dipper. My brother, Jake, showed me when I was little. If you go to the end of it, the drinking side, and go to the last two stars, you can draw a line. Take your three fingers and put them three times back to back…then you get to the North Star, Polaris. That way, you're never lost. You always know which way is North, and can find your way home."

Sam let her arm fall back to the ground, keeping her eyes tracking the points of light above. "We have big grassy prairies in District 10 that our animals feed on. You can go lie down on them at night during the summer, and it's warm and the sky is just filled with stars, everywhere, as far as you can see since we don't have a lot of trees except for one wood. The great milky river of stars runs through them, making it almost like an artist's canvas full of twinkling paint drops. When I was little, Jake and I would go out and just watch them for hours. I wanted to reach up and grab them all, stick my hand in the river in the sky. Just touch them…they always seemed so happy and different than everything else. Like they hadn't been put there on accident."

She sighed, bringing up the memories from a happier time as tears threatened to return. "Now I know I can't do that. Nobody can touch the stars. Never will, even if I make it out of here and go home alive. That was always my dream, and now it's just…gone, I guess."

Storm looked over at Gannet's sleeping form. "I wonder how it is in the other districts, like 4. Water, fishing, seas…I'm not dumb enough to call it an easy life, but that's gotta be better than being stuck like we are, out in the forgotten areas of Panem. Maybe not so many starving kids in the streets."

"She doesn't deserve to be thrown into here like the rest of us," Sam joined his gaze over at the sleeping girl. "She's not really fourteen. Probably never even saw it coming…I watched her Reaping, and I don't think she ever thought someone wouldn't volunteer for her, since District 4's full of Careers. I wonder how many people she has waiting for her back home, watching now."

"All of us do, in one way or another," Storm laid his head back down, playing with a piece of Sam's hair. "Twenty-three can't come home alive. The twenty-fourth won't, either. Maybe they will in their body, but not in heart and mind."

Storm let the words carry over the two for a minute before he finished off his thoughts. "But I hope you get the chance to touch those stars one day, Sam. I've only known you for a few days, but I can't think of someone better than you to do it."

Sam didn't reply; all that had to be said had been spoken. She pulled herself closer to Storm's chest and body, curling up in the strong arms he offered. Everyone she'd ever known could only look on from far away in District 10, but at least for one night in this horrible arena, she felt safe and sound.


	20. Agreeing to Disagree

Sam, Storm, and Gannet stayed at their impromptu base camp for another full day, using the canyon stream for food and keeping out of sight of any unwanted eyes. Gannet and Sam managed to piece together a sturdy piece of wood into a decent weapon by fire-hardening a carved tip into a blackened point; if nothing else, it'd make sure the little band had more than just one spear on hand if bigger or nastier tributes came looking. Things felt edgy, however – two days passed without a new kill, and by now the Capitol audience would be thirsting for blood. No doubt Phaeston Rex would be all too eager to give them what they wanted.

"C'mon," Storm got the three moving just after sunrise. "I want to take a look around on what's further down the canyon. Maybe something we can use."

The medicine that had floated down via parachute had managed to heal up Sam's shoulder into working order; it still hurt and ached as she tried anything but basic motions, but it had closed a seal over the injury and seemed ready to go.

"What are you looking to find?" she asked, throwing the backpack over her shoulders.

"Well, we're out of…basically, everything," Storm fretted as the three got on the move. "So whatever we do find helps, as long as it doesn't try to kill us."

_Like everything else we've found_, Sam wanted to say. The Gamesmakers wouldn't let that opportunity pass; sending something else to kill them would just be _too much fun_.

The desert air had cooled remarkably from the hot, dry atmosphere of the opening few days. While the unending gorge of sand, dust, and sparse eucalyptus vegetation never ceased to greet them in every turn and gully, gray clouds hung low over the sky. The sun peeked out from behind the shroud now and then, casting ugly shadows across the rocks. Things seemed all too quiet for Sam – on a day where the Games had to drum up some excitement, a damp pallor had taken over instead.

"Time for some rain?" Sam offered hopefully in the late morning, eyes up amidst the cloud cover.

"Could use it," Storm agreed. "Be nice for also what I have in mind."

He looked to where Gannet led the three, taking point with the wood spear twenty yards ahead of them. She seemed oblivious to what they were doing, taking her time looking around rocks and patiently wading forward to ensure danger didn't lurk behind some unseen boulder.

"Little bit of cover would do good if we want to see what kind of advantage we can gain," he spoke quietly to Sam. "Gannet would probably get spooked, but I…want to head up to the Cornucopia at some point. See if the Careers left anything behind. Tough sell, but since there was really only one way down if you didn't take the fast way like I did…"

"Yeah, I kinda took that too," Sam grimaced, remembering her near-fall to her death just after the gong had sounded. "Why would it be bad for Gannet?"

"Well, we're dramatically increasing our odds of running into the Careers, for one," Storm said. "She's risk-aversive, so I dunno how well that kind of thinking would go over. Nothing risked, nothing gained, right? We need some real weapons, some supplies we can carry around. We're running on empty here."

"If you say so," Sam rolled her eyes. "She's not _helpless_."

"Well, yeah, but in a straight up fight?" Storm tried to clarify his point. "She's handy with knots or keeping you from bleeding to death, but if that big kid from 2 comes around the corner, we're probably looking at a mess."

"That'd be happening regardless," Sam countered.

Storm smirked, kicking a rock down into the stream. "Sam, we have to run into the other kids eventually. There's no going around that. If nobody else kills Hadrian, then he's coming here."

Sam said nothing, but Storm was right. She knew that…the Careers had four highly-trained killing machines, what with Hadrian's brute strength and Royal's quick lethality leading the way. Even the three of them together probably stood no chance. The Careers would have numbers, they'd have experience, supplies, weapons, probably a few days of eating and resting well. Sam wanted to give herself the intelligence edge, what with both her and Gannet seemingly holding that edge, but she couldn't be absolutely sure there, either. Royal had already proven to have a keen mind for killing.

And what about the other tributes still wandering about? Most of those left hadn't made much of an impression on her, but her district mate was still alive and kicking somewhere in the desert arena. Laredo was no slouch, either. She'd seen enough of him between the Reaping to the interview to know he would be a formidable force to whoever he ran across. That he wasn't dead yet was testament to a survivalist's mind – he clearly hadn't gone into the Cornucopia's blood spree, and he'd been able to eke out a living on what the arena offered.

A flash of lightning in the distance brought Sam out of her line of thought. A storm was rolling in – and not the Storm who plodded along the canyon next to her, but the dangerous one that flashed from above. Sam took the time to remind herself that the_ tribute_ Storm was _also_ dangerous, but he'd made it clear that he didn't want any part of killing her off. She questioned why she really believed him for what seemed like the hundredth time – had he been sincere under the stars, saying he had nothing left to look forward to? District 12 was a laughingstock amongst Panem, but that bad?

The better question really was if _she_ could kill him if it came to that.

Gannet waved the two of them forward after an hour as the river picked up steam. Sam had preoccupied herself by eating leftover fish from the few they had caught in the river, and having something new to focus on at least kept her from sliding off into deeper thoughts. She had to be here and now – no telling what could jump out at any minute.

"The river splits ahead," Gannet knelt down on a large rock and used her ad hoc spear as a drawing tool in the sand. "Left and right. I don't know which goes where, or if we're just going in a big circle."

"We've been slowly curling to the right the whole time," Sam noted. "I dunno for sure since I've been stuck in the canyon pretty much the whole time, but I'm pretty sure I saw a part that extended off from the Cornucopia back at where we all came from. I'd make a bet that the canyon starts and ends at that point. The arena can only be so big."

"So what's left, then?" Storm raised the point. "Just a branch of the river?"

"Well, uh," Gannet explained. "The water's actually coming _from_ the stream on the left and going into the one on the right, which this one we've been following also feeds into. I think if we follow that it takes us to wherever the end is."

"Then that's probably where everyone else is headed," Storm asserted. "So let's avoid that."

"Or they're not going that way because they have the same thought," Sam countered.

"What's there to lose? Either way there's a chance we run into people."

Sam looked to Gannet for a deciding vote, but the girl from 4 had no desire to go against someone. _That's right_, Sam thought. _She's still not really sure where the loyalties lie here. After all, only one person comes out of the Games…_

"Alright. We'll do it your way," Sam relented to Storm. "Let's go left."

Where had her hardheadedness come from? Back in District 10, Sam had always been called the sweet one, or quiet, or shy. She'd even been too afraid to speak much on the train, outside of when Dallas or Laredo had managed to get her to do so. Yet in front of Storm she felt compelled to offer her opinion, and with Gannet in tow she felt as if she had to make the right calls. A few days had forced her to throw aside all forms of shyness and step up as a leader – lest her life be forfeit if she didn't. With Storm and Gannet beside her, Sam felt as if she had more than just her own life to be responsible about now. Two of the three would have to die eventually, but why hasten that?

_How are you going to kill them_, a voice whispered in the back of Sam's head. _You think you can backstab sweet lil' Gannet in her sleep? Maybe Storm lets you kill him; maybe he's being sincere. How do you kill the little girl from 4 who shouldn't even be here? You'll always think of yourself as a murderer._

_It's not so hard,_ a conflicting voice spoke up as the three rounded the corner of the canyon and headed down the left river. _Killed off Troop pretty well, didn't ya?_

_He was going to cannibalize you. That was an accident_.

_Damn skippy one_.

Sam wondered what her friends and family back home in District 10 would say. Some were easy to predict – Clara would probably have a heart attack at the notion of murdering someone, even with her tomboyish attitude that provoked arguments more often than not. Jake would advocate survival at any costs – after all, nothing was too good for his sister, right? Those other people were just faces.

It was up to Clay to break the tie. What would he say, the poor kid from the worst areas of District 10 who'd managed to strike up a friendship with the well-to-do girls?

"Sam," Storm's quiet voice took over, breaking her internal debate. "We…need to talk. While Gannet's up there being leader."

_So he's going to decide things for you. Great._

"'Bout what?" Sam kept her eyes low as she asked. The boy from 12 had a keen sense of reading her mind…just as she'd wanted some clarity, she could already feel that he was prepared to broach the topic of the third wheel of their alliance.

"You know what," Storm said patiently. "I don't have much to look forward to; you know that, we talked about that. But…there's three of us."

Sam feigned indignation. "What are you trying to say?"

Storm sighed, getting to the meat of his point. "When the crowd's thinned out a little bit, and if the three of us are all still standing…"

He looked up, ensuring Gannet was far enough ahead to be out of earshot. "Do you want me to be the one to kill her off if we get there?"

"How can you say that?" Sam kept her voice down, but added a note of poison to her tone. "She's our ally! We don't even know what's gonna happen between now and whenever this thing ends! What if she saves your life, too?"

"Then you can thank her for me when you go home," he replied grimly. "Look, she's a nice girl, pleasant, sweet. Unfortunately, we don't really have the liberty of weighing who's nicer at this time. Besides, who knows what's under her skin? Maybe she's a cold-hearted killer under there, or maybe she's just a nut like me who doesn't even care anymore."

"Maybe you should try talking to her like a person!" Sam replied acidly. "She's not just some _tool_ like that spear or this backpack."

"Troop wasn't a tool either. Neither are the other kids we have to kill."

_And now you've gone and made yourself look like a weak, emotionally-invested idiot, Sam, great. Great job for anybody watching_.

She didn't care too much about sponsors – after all, someone had liked her enough to send her the medicine after the mutt attack. What worried her more was that Storm had once again hammered an emotional pressure point – and once again, he was right. The boy from District 6, the Careers – they all had family and friends. She only saw Gannet as more partly because she was a small girl with a young frame, with a friendly personality to boot.

Give her Hadrian's brawn and attitude, and she's just another tribute.

_Now he's done it. Here come the tears_.

"Why'd you have to say that?" Sam sat down on a sandstone rock, placing her head in her hands and refusing to look at Storm.

"Sam, I-" Storm paused, unsure of where to proceed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it personally."

Another crack of thunder sounded off down the canyon as Sam sniffed into her arm. "Yes you did. You weren't getting what you wanted so you had to bring that up. It's bad enough being here without always thinking about what we have to do. What I've already done."

Inside her head, Sam didn't blame Storm for mentioning Troop. She'd done that enough on her own, reliving the death and encounter a hundred times since it'd happened - and all that in just a few days. The way he said it, however - with a certain level of vitriol, with an acceptance as if that was the way things had to be - it made her feel angry and loose on the inside. Sam wanted a target to hurl her emotions out at, someone to direct the bad feelings against, and Storm was an easy one. He wouldn't fight back with her when it came down to emotions.

Gannet came trotting back, alarmed at first by the scene. "Are…are you okay?"

Storm cast a wayward glance her way and Sam struggled to wipe away the anxiety that littered her face. "I'm fine. I'm fine – we were just having a disagreement. That's all."

Thunder sounded in the sky as Sam stood back up, taking the spear from Gannet. "I'll take the lead for a while. Have to get some things behind me."

"Think you're gonna need to do more than that," Storm spoke up, pointing skyward.

Sam followed his motion up, finally realizing the danger they were in. As she and Storm had argued, the sky had grown considerably darker, lightning etching across the landscape behind them. No rain had fallen, but the clouds had slowly come together into something powerful – something bad. The Gamesmakers had had enough of the peace.

It was impossible to mistake the funnel cloud in the sky as anything but a harbinger of death.


	21. Brother Versus Brother

_Run_. That was the first thought through Sam's mind as the funnel cloud dipped towards the ground, spiraling and weaving like an angry harpy sent from Olympus. She felt her legs take off before her mind realized what was going on, pumping against the ground as fast as they'd take her. On cue, Gannet and Storm wordlessly moved after her in the rush of the moment. The Gamesmakers had reared their ugly head again, and this time survival was much more about escape than fight. You couldn't beat this kind of enemy.

The tornado ripped into the canyon walls like a lawnmower as it made contact with the earth. Rock and debris flew as destructive meteors through the dark air. Sam felt pinpricks of pain as tiny pebbles struck her at full speed, raining welts across her back and neck. The landscape before her zipped past, forgettable, unseen – she had to keep moving, to outrun this great gray beast that snaked up the road behind her.

Over the din of the screaming tornado, everything amalgamated into a cacophonous tunnel of raw noise. Sam panted in labored breaths with each stride; sprinting at a full gate became more and more difficult with each passing second, but the tornado showed no signs of stopping. Its intensity only seemed to convey some vendetta the Gamesmakers had against the trio; as if they'd crossed the line by surviving this long, and the great disaster behind them intended to rectify the problem.

"We have to find someplace to get down!" Storm yelled from behind. Sam barely heard his words over the roar, but caught just enough to get the meaning.

They'd never make it like this.

A sickening thought crossed Sam's mind as she struggled to gain distance. Gamesmakers often tried to bring tributes together to kill them off, rather than create artificial ways of knocking off the children. One great way to do this was via natural disasters: staying in the path of danger invited death, and very few tributes lived with a death wish. Of course, the logic there said that running from danger invited the same thing, only by the hands of a dangerous and angry Career rather than a Gamesmaker button. It was a great catch-22 where the only outcome was death.

The wind gusted out from the twister in a gale of force, hurling Sam off her feet and throwing her against a rock. She scrambled to get up and stay moving, snatching her spear and feeling Gannet's hand close around her own. _Bless that little girl_, Sam thought, pulling herself up just in time to avoid a rock hurled by the tornado come smashing in.

The Gamesmakers quickly threw in a twist. As the tornado roared across the canyon behind the three, it picked up width – raking at the ravine's walls and sending showers of rocks and down. As Sam hurdled a downed eucalyptus tree, a rockslide erupted just before her as the entire canyon wall came collapsing down. She shrieked in fear, moving as fast as she could through a hail of scree and stone showering around her. Sam narrowly made it through the rockslide, turning a bend just as the tornado hit the pile of rocks. An explosion of debris shot out behind her, slamming into where she'd just ran from.

"Cave up ahead!" Gannet yelled through the roar.

Sam spotted it just as Gannet reported it. The river's entrance – a large, black cavern that the water ran from. It'd be a risk with the tornado tearing up everything behind them, but out here they'd get torn to shreds. There was no other option…and no doubt the Gamesmakers knew that.

Storm plowed into the cave first, tripping on a rock just as he reached the entrance and sliding into the river. Gannet came right after, with Sam holding up the rear, gripping her makeshift spear tightly as she scrambled into the cavern. She grabbed a hold of Storm's arm as the tornado neared closer outside, hurling an arsenal of stones in every direction. Sam pulled Storm free and behind cover as it reached the entrance, rumbling with a great thunderous roar.

Water from the stream spewed out across the three as they huddled behind a large boulder. Sam hoped in her heart it would hold – without it, they would be open to any and all punishment the wind could throw at them. She couldn't even hear her own thoughts in the din, her eyes pressed shut with the force of nature's fury and her body rooted as firmly to the ground as possible. Gannet's hands had wrapped tightly about her waist, finding something to cling on, as Storm shielded the two girls from anything else. It was a cumbersome position, and one that wouldn't last forever.

Fortunately, the Gamesmakers had had enough – or had achieved what they planned to do. The tornado snaked up into the sky after several minutes of holding position outside the cave entrance, reeling like a wounded animal back into the stormy sky. Sam looked about the cave, trying to catch her bearings – but opposite the entrance, only a gloomy darkness pervaded. The inky black extended for some untold depth, following the river that followed the flow of the cave.

Storm got to his feet, letting go of Gannet and Sam to take a look around. "C'mon. Let's check out the cave. There's gotta be a reason that thing drove us here."

_To get us killed, probably_, Sam wanted to shout. It was all too nicely done – the tornado had sent them scurrying like rats, just to find shelter in time? This was _not_ a coincidence – but she had no chance of stopping Storm when he had his mind set to explore.

Gannet, however, looked absolutely frightened. "Nothin's gonna happen," Sam put on a fake smile, trying to re-assure the girl. "There's three of us and just the darkness."

"It's the water," Gannet replied, her green eyes downcast at the stream. That sent chills up Sam's spine; if someone from District 4 who had sent their lives on the ocean said something wasn't right with water, then something wasn't right. "It's not normal. It's too…rigid."

"Probably just from being sucked up by the twister," Storm said in a rather bored voice, his eyes peering into the black. "I doubt it's anything."

"No. We have riptides back at home," Gannet pleaded, her eyes large and full of trepidation. "They just make the water look calm. This is…different…it's not right. It's like there's something in the water."

"Storm, we can explore later," Sam tried to play mediator in the situation. "Let's try and find out what happened outside; at least we can see."

"Hold on," he replied. "I think there's something back here…"

By now, Sam knew Gannet was on to something. A low hum, just barely audible, seemed to be coming from the rear of the cave, somewhere deep in the darkness. Unnatural ripples in the water spoke of movement from further in. Perhaps worst, Sam's gut told her _something,_ natural or unnatural, was looking to get the three tributes – the Gamesmakers had to be having a good laugh.

"Think I got something here," Storm spoke up, leaning into the darkness.

He'd no sooner done that then a black shape rushed out like a dark nightmare. Sam barely had time to take in the dark-skinned boy before he'd flattened Storm like a car accident, bringing his arm back for a weapon. Sam lunged for her own spear just as the boy – District 11's tribute, she briefly acknowledged – pulled a very deadly-looking chain flail off his back, swinging the weapon once and just missing Storm's head with the spiked club attached at the end. Storm rolled away, his own spear out and prepared to engage.

Sam rushed in, operating entirely on instinct and animal brain as she jabbed forth with her wooden spear. The boy from 11 countered easily, wrapping the polearm up with his flail and diverting it away. He swung the weapon at her, off-kilter and missing but striking a rock in the process. The stone exploded in a shower of debris from the hit, blasted into pieces by the force of the impact.

"Get outta here Sam! Go!" Storm yelled, thrusting his weapon twice at the tribute from 11 like a fencer. "Go! I'll find you!"

Unfortunately, the two boys had rounded and turned so that the entrance was a no-go. Sam would have to retreat further into the cave…right into the inky darkness and whatever waited.

"Gannet, come on," Sam grabbed Gannet's hand, half-dragging her away from the ensuing fight. As much as she wanted to help Storm, she knew he had a point – fighting as two individuals with two styles against a boy who clearly knew how to use a weapon like that only asked for one of them to go down. Of course, Storm was also looking to protect her – but Sam didn't want Gannet caught up in the fight either. She had the trio's knife out, but that weapon was virtually useless against something like a flail.

"We have to help him!" Gannet pleaded, struggling to run back.

_Which will just get one of us killed,_ Sam thought. _Nice to want to help, but too many chiefs and not enough helpers makes everyone dead_.

Turbulence began kicking up in the stream more as daylight became less and less visible. Sam had to physically hold on to Gannet to make sure the girl was still following her, inching her way along the dark cave. That the boy from 11 had managed to hide out here and stay sane was remarkable – the black of the cavern, along with the low hum in the background that progressively grew louder and louder with each noisy step through the cave, unnerved Sam to no extent. She began to doubt the tribute had been here alone – and she began to wonder if she was leading Gannet right into a trap.

A blinding flash of red confirmed her fears. Out of the darkness, a flare blew away the black into a kaleidoscope of eerie light. The flare found its way to a rock ledge, bathing the entire cavern depth in lighting ready-made for a horror scene. Sam had just enough time to push Gannet to the ground and raise her spear before she saw the aggressor.

_Laredo_.

Sam's fellow tribute from District 10 came charging out of the dark like a raging bull. The arena seemingly hadn't fazed him one bit, and the flare's light pattern made him look all the more physically imposing to Sam. He hadn't come unarmed, either – he gripped a short, curved sword in his right hand, like a kukri but longer and with a more angled point. The red light glinted off the edge as he snarled at Sam, swinging the weapon forward like a mace.

She let out a cry of recognition before just managing to bring her spear up to catch the blow, glancing the kukri off the wood and away.

"Laredo, it's _me_," Sam yelled, backpedaling and looking for a way out. "It's Sam! From District 10!"

"I know!" he shouted, missing with a wide swing. A crazed, almost animal gleam shone out of his eyes, as if killing were the one thing that satisfied him. "I've been looking forward to this!"

Laredo moved in with ferocity as Gannet scrambled out of the way, ignoring the girl from District 4 and engaging Sam in a bloody rage. He swept his blade in rapid, wide arcs, keeping Sam off-balance and forcing her to protect herself defensively, lest she be decapitated. Sam dove and somersaulted as he struck vertically, missing her torso by inches and ripping up a shower of rock.

_He's gone completely crazy_, Sam thought in the heat of battle. Every year, the arena managed to drive some tribute or two into a complete animal fervor, destroying the very notion of what was and was not human. Laredo's wild, undisciplined actions, his carnal snarl; everything spoke of a kid from District 10 who'd gone completely unhinged. She envisioned him and the boy from 11 camped out in the cave, frothing at the mouth and eating rabid animals.

_Didn't Storm say he'd seen the boy from 11 while you were unconscious? Had the tornado driven them here, too?_

Sam had no time to think about such questions as Laredo went for another killing stroke, stabbing with the point of his blade and slamming the kukri into Sam's spear. Laredo lunged for another blow, but pulled up suddenly and short with a cry of pain. _Gannet!_ The girl had raced in, slicing across his left calf with her knife before jumping out of the way as Laredo swung in a semicircle with the kukri. Risky move, but someone wasn't walking away from this alive.

_If Storm was even alive still…_

"Get back here you _bitch_!" Laredo snarled, hobbled but still more than capable of fighting.

Sam readied herself for another round of attacks, stepping back and trying to get out of the flare's light. The combat had stirred up the river, however…and suddenly, Gannet's prediction about the water "Not being right" seemed more potent than ever.

With a feral cry, _something_ reached out with a long tentacle, purple and oily in the red chemical light, and swatted Laredo to the ground. Sam ran in without thinking, pulling the spear back to finish off Laredo before another arm came out and snatched her off her feet. She barely had time to hold on to her spear before it tossed her against the side of the cave, dragging her back. Suckers on the arm latched onto her skin, pulling with incredible force on each square inch like a great sponge. Too late Sam noticed parallel rows of sharp, needle-like teeth that lined the arm as they picked over her skin like feelers, preparing to lay a nasty bite.

"Sam!" Gannet shrieked in terror, frozen between Laredo's recovering form and whatever horrible thing had crawled out from the cave.

Sam stabbed the tentacle with her spear in a rush of adrenaline, eliciting a screaming, guttural howl from the darkness. It let her go with a screech and retreated, but not before Laredo had gotten back on his feet and rushed forward, ignoring his leg injury. Sam rolled into the water to avoid his swiping attack, caught between trying to make a move against him and watching out for whatever Gamesmaker invention lurked in the black.

"This is how it has to be," Laredo panted as he and Sam squared off. "You, me, and whatever the Capitol can come up with that's worse than either of us. We're just a bunch of killers, Sam. We have to be. Nobody makes it out of this arena alive!"

"We don't have to kill each other!" Sam tried one final time. "Come on! We don't have to die like this!"

"You don't get it!" Laredo laughed. "I don't even believe there's such a thing as a victor anymore! Not after all this. Even if I come out of this, I never really win, do I? I might as well just kill as many as I can, get it over with. If I can't ever win, I can make sure you can't either. The Capitol's always going to be with us no matter what. District 10's always been the trash pile of the Capitol, Sam. Might as well keep it that way!"

"This is how it is!" he yelled at the cave wall before narrowing his eyes at Sam. "Killing each other forever."

He rushed forward with the kukri raised high as Sam prepared to make a killing stab to his unprotected gut. Before either could make contact, the unseen beast from the darkness rebounded and roared as it snatched Laredo's good leg. He dropped the kukri and face-planted into the river, reaching in vain for the weapon that had slid out of his grasp. Sam dashed to the blade and snatched it up, avoiding a sucker-covered arm that swiped at the air for her. It landed on Laredo instead, latching onto his chest and holding tight.

"How it is!" he laughed maniacally as it slowly dragged him towards the blackness. "Never stop killing! Not even me!"

The tentacle on his chest unsheathed its needle teeth, ripping them into Laredo's chest . The boy from District 10 screamed in pain, fighting with both arms to pull the Gamesmaker beast away from him. It only yanked harder, tearing at his flesh with both arms. The one on his chest latched free, but not due to any part on Laredo's behalf. It exploded with a red mist, ripping away enough skin and sinew to leave exposed muscle glistening in the dim light of the flare.

_Run. Run._

Everything in Sam's mind told her to run, but Laredo's screams of agony pulled her back. He'd tried to kill her, yes, and she had nothing but disdain for the brute of a tribute who'd just happened to come from the same district as her. But nobody – _nobody _ – deserved to die that way. He was getting torn apart piece by piece as the beast from the darkness reached out with another tentacle, gripping tightly about his waist.

_Do it. He's already dead_.

But Sam couldn't run. Laredo wouldn't make it five minutes even if the beast let go and swam back to whatever hellish hole it had come from, but she could end it. She rushed up to him and swatted one of the beast's sucker-covered arms out of the way with Laredo's kukri.

"I'm sorry," she whispered quietly, and brought the blade down on his neck.

Red blood spattered her face like a sprinkler as his head darted back. Laredo flopped about in the beast's grasp as Sam sprinted backwards, finding Gannet in the flare's dying light and hurrying as fast as she could go in the opposite direction. She turned her head back, getting a last glimpse of Laredo's body being torn into shining chunks of raw meat and the beginning of a slimy animal head before she rushed away. The beast roared and continued its work, every grisly tear and rip a damning note on Sam's actions.

_You killed him. Mercy kill or not – you killed a fellow tribute from District 10_.

"_Sam!_" a pained voice shouted down the cavern as she and Gannet made haste for daylight.

In the din of the monster's lunch behind her and fear dripping from the wall, Sam didn't recognize the voice at first. Gannet apparently didn't either, having grabbed Sam's old wooden spear and raising it defensively. The two rounded a bend in the cave and caught just a glimpse of daylight before a figure ran smack into Sam. Three bodies fell down into the river, clamoring for weapons and prepared to fight. Sam lunged at the figure with her kukri, quicker on the uptake and grabbing the boy who had fallen down.

"Sam! It's me, it's me, Storm!" the boy pleaded – _Storm!_

"Oh my God," Sam fell off him, lowering the weapon and grabbing him in a hug. "Are you okay, is-"

Gannet came in with the voice of reason. "We have to go, that thing might still be behind us!"

Before Storm had a chance to ask "What thing?" Sam grabbed him by the hand and began pulling him towards daylight. The three tributes scrambled for the light as squelching sounds of Laredo's remains echoed down the cave from the rear – _he_ wouldn't be headed back in a box. It'd require a bag to pick up all those parts…if there were even any parts left.

The trio burst into the light of day under the cloudy sky, clearing ten meters from the mouth of the cave before they slumped down into the dirt. The tornado had left a path of destruction, strewing rocks and vegetation as far as the eye could see. An entire wall of the canyon had collapsed, leaving a scalable hillside that completely rearranged the orientation of this side of the arena.

Right now, however, Sam could do little more than count her blessings.

Storm grabbed her, turning her to face him as his gray eyes showed concern. He scanned the blood on her face, shocked by her condition: "Sam, I killed him - but are you okay, what happ-"

Sam slapped him in the shoulder and buried her head in his chest, releasing pent-up adrenaline and emotion from the fight and killing. Words wouldn't do justice to what had just happened: the quiet, shy girl from District 10 had just unearthed the reality of everything the Hunger Games and the Capitol were. There was no celebration, no amiable atmosphere of spirit and camaraderie. No matter how much Constantine Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith could spin the event, this was no friendly match of sport.

There was only death and pain in the Hunger Games. Laredo was right: even if she was a victor, the Capitol's brand would never leave her now.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Blood, guts, and dead tributes. Like the action, hate it? Lemme know how I did - writing, combat, how stupid/cool the mutt was. Constructive criticism always welcome!_**


	22. Questions Without Answers

Storm settled on making camp in a raised area concealed by the destruction the tornado had wrought. Debris had been thrown everywhere, and the canyon wall that had come down offered a buffer against the desert air and any enterprising tributes. The beast within the cave had contented itself with devouring the remains of Laredo; Gannet speculated it wouldn't leave its sanctuary. Just to be sure, the trio set up for the night a good twenty meters away from the river bank.

Three tributes had died on the day; Laredo and the boy from District 11, along with the girl from 11, bringing the grand total for the Games up to thirteen. That wasn't a lot by common standards; sometimes that many died alone at the Cornucopia, and it still left eleven tributes running about on Day 5. The Gamesmakers would surely want to whittle that number down.

An unexpected gift dropped down in the form of a parachute as night fell – a welcome present to three tributes who had been subsiding on river fish. They split a meal of beans, rice, and some type of bird meat nobody could place six ways, each taking half their share and packing away the rest for the next day. To Sam, it was little respite for the events of the day – the Games had been vicious and showed all their tenacity. Laredo's family wouldn't even have anything to mourn over, and they'd only have her to pin the blame on.

Sleep didn't come easily. The tornado had seemingly made everything colder, and although the rock slide had created a barrier against the night wind, the dry air cooled quickly. Sam found herself curled up with Gannet as the two took the first watch, letting Storm sleep for a few hours. Their combined body heat did little to keep out the cold night, however – but every little ounce of warmth they kept helped.

"What's it like in District 10?" Gannet whispered as the moon lazily glided along the sky.

Sam let the question fall over her. An odd yet simple thing, really; nobody from the districts ever saw the others. The only ones who did were the victors, and the only way they accomplished that was through an event that resulted in deaths from every one of the districts. There was something symbolic in that.

"It's…big," Sam managed. "It's mostly a big prairie. There's a lot of grass that the animals eat…we raise cows, pigs, sheep. Lot of dust too; it gets everywhere, but you get used to it. It's warm most of the year and then snows sometimes in winter. There's a green grassy hill that I always went to before we all came here; when you sit on it in summertime on a clear day, you can see for miles in any direction, over the entire district. You can see all the ranchers and herders, you can see the town square and the little shops and the train station; you can see a wood that I scampered off to whenever the animals didn't need tending or after they had shipped off to the places where they were made into food each six months."

"To me it's nice…just…kinda slow. Slow, and we're forgotten by everyone, but decent. I guess it's easy for me to say, since my family has some money and most in District 10 don't. I didn't have to take tesserae like most, and I always saw my best friend having to. Most kids would say they go hungry a lot, and that they wish they could have a decent meal. Some never get that. But for me…there's things I always wish could be better. I always wish those kids could have food, that nobody would starve or be hungry or die from getting kicked by a horse. But I'm not going to complain. I can't change that."

Gannet smiled a tad as Sam recollected the memories that she'd likely never see again. "So you like it?"

"It's all I ever knew. It's home," Sam said. "Yeah, I like it I guess."

Sam replayed the scenario in her head. Why did she like it in District 10? Sure, it was better than this arena, and easy to say when mutts weren't ripping apart people like paper. But there were all those bad things back home as well. The people in the streets, dying from hunger. The ranch hands who purchased alcohol from the merchants and did something stupid and ended up paying for it dearly. The slaughterhouse butchers, all of them poor, who toiled away in terrible conditions – they were the worst-off of those who actually worked by far. If they had families larger than three people, there was no chance their meager income would feed everyone with even stale bread. The dairy milkers weren't much better. It only paid to ranch, and you had to have skills or family ties to do that.

But she didn't have to worry about that. Sam had been born lucky – not luckily enough, apparently, but lucky for District 10. She'd been blessed not just to come into a family that dealt with raising, rather than killing, animals, but one that controlled a big stake in the production as well. She could afford to sit by a river, skip rocks, and look through the trees in the wood on a sunny summer day. Could most kids? No. They did that, and they'd end up going hungry and dying. The stratified atmosphere of District 10 was anything but fair.

But why spoil her personal good thing?

Sam privately wondered whether her stressed mind was glazing over the details, locked in a state of frenzy in what could always be her last hour of life. Maybe it did; maybe it skipped over the bad parts to remember the good before her death. She saw no problem in that.

"How's District 4?" Sam asked back, diverting her mind before she could question the picturesque scene she'd imagined. "We would only hear in school that you guys fished, so I always imagined something really pretty. You know, like clear water, like a bath, but that was life. I've never seen the sea."

"It's actually cold and rainy in the winter," Gannet fretted, her sea green eyes looking out over the stars. "It's gray all the time then. My family's full of fishers like most people, but you have to go out on the boats even when it's gross like that. The canneries are where the people whose kids have to take tesserae work at…we had to tour one in school, and it was bad. I'm glad I don't have to do that."

"The boats are better in the summer though," she went on, losing herself in memory. "The sea calms down and the fish seem to like it better. You swim in the water and the current's warm. Since most of the time the boats just trawl on long nets and lines rather than fish like you might think with a hook. It's faster, but you end up having to do a lot of boat repair. People get hurt sometimes. If the line comes up with anything the Capitol doesn't take, however, all the fishers get to keep that stuff since it's just 'junk.' There's a lot of big squids, maybe a foot shorter than me and red. The Capitol doesn't want squids, so that's something you eat a lot. You do learn knots fast."

Sam laughed lightly at that. She wondered if Gannet was doing the same thing; glazing over District 4's best parts rather than giving a realistic picture. They had Careers, so she doubted it – besides, districts like 10 and 12 took _far_ more tesserae than one like 4.

"So you like it?" Sam repeated Gannet's question with a smile.

"I guess. I would guess most of the other districts don't like us since we usually have volunteers to the arenas, though," Gannet spoke. Sam noted that she didn't use the word "Careers" – of course, not, that was the derogatory term from District 10 and the other outliers. "Nobody volunteered for me, though."

Gannet's quiet thought left a silence hanging over the two.

"Why didn't anyone?" Sam piped up after a minute.

"The best girl everyone says is gonna win whenever she volunteers is seventeen. Everyone thought she was gonna volunteer this year, and in the preliminary pool to figure out who raises their hand – that's how we figure out volunteers, since there's several of them each year – she was the one picked," Gannet explained. "But she didn't do it. She just didn't volunteer, so nobody else did either."

Sam said nothing. That was a real tragedy – Gannet had no business being near the Games in a district like that where hearty, beefy kids volunteered every year. It was probably better for _her_ that things had worked out that way – one less Career – but not for the girl curled up to share her body heat, biting her lip as she stared at the starlit night sky.

"What are you guys gonna do with me?" Gannet spoke up suddenly after a brief intermission in their chat.

"Storm wants to go to the Cornucopia," Sam tried to avoid the topic; the girl from 4 was smart. She knew there was only one victor. "He thinks the Careers might have left and there'll be something to find. We'll also be able to get a better view of the arena since we've been in the canyon forever."

"Only one person's coming out, Sam," Gannet said, a note of futility entering her voice. "I overheard him earlier. He wants you to win. He doesn't have much to look forward to back in District 12…unlike you and I, I don't think he likes home."

"He" clearly meant Storm, but this was exactly what Sam had hoped to avoid. Storm had really made no act of pulling for Sam. He'd always looked for her when the three had been together, conferred with her, talked with her. Sam had watched over Gannet, but more and more she'd assumed the centerpiece in an alliance that clearly couldn't last forever. Three tributes from three vastly different districts would, at some point, have to kill off one another, especially if they were the last three standing. That was Sam's worst-case scenario.

"Gannet, don't talk like that," Sam admonished. "We'll think of something. There's a lot of time before the Games are over to figure out a solution."

"One comes out; one only," Gannet repeated, refusing to make eye contact. "Both of you have killed someone; I haven't. I don't think I can. What happens when Storm tries to kill me?"

"He won't try to kill you," Sam said.

"He will if there's just three of us left. He'll let you kill him but won't do that with me. What if the Careers all die and the other kids do too, and the Gamesmakers are waiting on us three? What if something happens to you and it's just us two?"

Sam didn't have a reply. Gannet had asked the one question she had no answer for, and wouldn't as long as she was still alive and kicking with the two others in the arena. If Storm tried to kill Gannet in front of her, maybe she could take him out – but what then? It'd still be Gannet and her left, and she knew she wasn't willing to toss away her own life for the little girl, no matter how much she looked after her. Home with Jake and Clay and Clara was still waiting back on the District 10 prairie, and trying to be noble was one way to end up going home in a box.

Silently Sam cursed Storm. If she had his sense of idealism, his zealous drive to play the Games on his own terms and to not fear death, she could do it. She could sacrifice herself, let Gannet go home. But she didn't have that, and she never would – Sam was not an idealist. She was smart, and the smart way in the Games said to take care of yourself when the price of not doing so was death. If Storm wanted to take care of her as well, then that was two heads looking out for one.

"That's Venus up there," Sam pointed up at a particularly bright point in the sky, leading the conversation into less lethal places. "The bright yellow one. My brother says it's a planet, rather than a star…I always wondered, still wonder, if there's other people up there. Maybe they're like us, looking down and wondering what's down here. Wondering if there's two tributes an arena from faraway districts watching them."

"It's the planet of love. It's funny…we're in a game where we're supposed to kill each other, but the planet of love is winking down on us."

"It does funny things, love," Gannet said. "I know you won't hurt me, Sam, even if you killed the boy today. I won't hurt you either. You looked after me when everyone in these Games ignored me or rejected me. Saying I was too small, or too weak. You're the only friend I've had since I left home."

She looked unhappily over at Storm's sleeping form before finishing her line of thought. "But he's only wanted you in these Games. He took me along with you two to make you happy. He loves you, even if you haven't seen it yet. That kinda thing makes you do funny things in a moment like this."


	23. Atop the Desert

"_He loves you, even if you haven't seen it yet."_

Gannet's remark the previous night played through Sam's head as the three tributes scaled the canyon's collapsed wall the next day. Storm hardly _loved_ her by any actions she'd seen. Sure, he looked out for her, and looked to protect her from danger – both the situations with the giant scorpion and in the cave had proven that – but what did that mean? For all she knew, he was just trying to cement an alliance and help the person he saw best fit for winning. He was an idealist, not a romantic.

Yet, she had to explore her own feelings. Sam remembered the look he'd given her back before the parade – she hadn't even known his name then. It was clear he saw something interesting. Since then he'd been working with her, trying to gain her favor, establishing the alliance around her. Did he really care about her? Was it some sort of trick? Undeniably he was clever, but did it run deeper?

There was something warm in that protection, as well…

Sam found something funny with dangerous, life-altering situations like the Games. In them, she'd found attachment with people she'd not known, accomplished over very little time. Gannet and Storm had only been in her life for a week and a half. Dallas had only spent a week with her, yet she respected him with every ounce due a victor. She felt as if she knew the people involved in the tournament eagerly awaiting her death more than most people she had known back in District 10. It was strange how it took life-or-death scenarios to do that.

The top of the canyon was noticeably cooler than the floor, subject to stronger constant winds that gusted over the dusty terrain. The sparse eucalyptus trees down in the canyon floor were nonexistent up at the top, exposed to the elements; only sand dust littered the landscape, along with a plethora of red and brown rocks ranging from the omnipresent pebbles and small stones to huge boulders. Everything blended into the same colors; uniformity was the main feature of note. Wherever the Cornucopia and the tree grove Sam had seen at the beginning were, they weren't here.

Sam was glad she had filled the water bottle up before ascending up here, as that was nowhere to be found. Strangely, animal life showed its head up more than down in the canyon. There, fish had been available and small things in the stream, but up here actual things with legs moved about from time to time. District 10 it was not, but seeing the occasional large-eared rabbit of a species Sam couldn't place was comforting. Even the one or two vultures she spotted offered something else alive.

Around high noon, Storm made an important discovery.

"That's not really normal," he said while taking point, turning around a clumped group of boulders. "Sam, you see these things in your district?"

It certainly wasn't normal. The animal carcass was intact and full of functionality, but not close to anything Sam had ever seen. The best she could place was a cross between a steer and a horse, but the unusual hump on its back and the elongated neck spoke of some other foreign creature entirely. A tan hide of short hair spoke of much greater things to get, however. The best part was around the creature's neck – a worn yet thick three-strand white rope that had obviously seen some time.

Camels weren't usual creatures in District 10, but Sam would have no problem finding something to do with the carcass.

"I don't even know what that is," she replied to Storm.

"Can we eat it?" Gannet asked, thinking with her stomach.

"I dunno, but it means we don't have to be cold at night anymore," Sam thought out loud. "Can I have the knife, Gannet? I'm gonna skin it. I can make something out of the rope around its neck, too."

The real prize was the lack of maggots or even carrion-feeders like the vultures. How the beast had managed to stave them off was an anomaly, but it spoke of a fresh death. Sam still had trouble with the thought of killing people, even after she'd racked her kill count up to two tributes, but gutting a dead animal was something she'd seen thousands of times in District 10. Every child back home had toured the slaughterhouses as part of schooling; this was no different than getting a drink of water.

"Skin it?" Gannet sounded worried.

"Yeah," Sam replied, slipping the knife in at the rear. "You just get the knife in like that, and make a big enough cut to get your hand in. It's kinda crude but you can work the hide off-"

She noticed that the other two had gone silent, raising her eyes up to see both of their stares. Gannet in particular looked distressed by Sam's casual demeanor to ripping the skin off the corpse's body – but then again, how often did District 4 kids have to kill big animals? Fish didn't count; they were ugly.

"Um, sorry," Sam said. "Listen, this is gonna take a while to get everything out…Gannet, why don't you and Storm go look around and see if there's anything else we can get near here? If this thing's dead, maybe there's other stuff."

Storm gave a wry smile and shook his head, watching Sam enter her element with the animal carcass. "You are kind of amazing, just going to work like that. But you're gonna be vulnerable to anybody by yourself."

"I'll see them coming. Just leave me the sword-thing," Sam indicated the kukri she'd left on the ground, blushing at Storm's compliment. "You two take the spears."

Gannet gave an uncertain look in Storm's direction, but Sam's two allies grabbed the backpack and left her to her work. Anyone but a citizen of District 10 likely would have found the entire thing disgusting, but Sam stuck her hand into the animal like it a routine job. Underneath the strange skin, it wasn't that different from a dead horse at all. Horse hide was a commodity the Capitol had no use for back in District 10, and the meat from the dead ones was one of the staple foods for those who could afford to pay the ranchers. Not exactly delicious, but protein was protein and anything that staved off starvation was good.

The camel's hairy skin proved a greater adversary to Sam then she originally thought, and it took the better part of an hour for her to strip the carcass from anus to head. She'd already had to throw a rock at a vulture approaching too close, and she figured it wasn't long before she had company through all sorts of unwelcome animal life. When the flies showed up – if they even lived out in this desert – it'd be too late.

Sam's life spent around animals told her of another valuable piece to the camel, however – one she didn't really plan on sharing. It was a risky venture with this unknown creature, but the heart of horses contained more nutrients than any other single piece. It was something that never escaped the tables of the comparatively wealthy of District 10, and it'd keep her going out here in the desert. Fluids, protein, minerals, vitamins – it was a lifesaver.

"Look at you," Sam began talking to herself to keep her company. It wasn't as if any stalking tributes would find her here. "You're on screens around Panem, and you're digging stuff out of this dead animal. That's really kinda gross. You're probably scaring people in District 1, Sammy."

She burrowed the knife in the chest wall of the camel, ripping it open and digging the heart out. Sam lifted up the purple organ to take a look – no real difference from a horse's. The other organs could provide all sorts of nasty diseases, but this one would be safe, if not the best tasting. She took a sniff, closed her eyes and made a face, and took a bite.

"Ugh," she said, quickly swallowing. "The spider was better."

She tossed the heart back onto the carcass after another bite – let the vultures have it.

"I bet Cheyenne's watching right now," Sam smiled to herself, still rambling on. "All like, 'Grr, why are you eating bloody dead horse-cow things, you're a savage, how do I sell you to sponsors when you're acting like an animal? Stupid girl!' At least I don't smoke."

Sam tore a large swath of meat from the loin and took the rope off before backing away to the boulders, dragging the hairy skin along behind her. A vulture appeared as she got to work on the rope, already hungry to begin feasting on the carcass. Sam thanked herself silently for telling Gannet to go do something else; the opened and exposed corpse of the camel was not pretty. It smelled worse.

The rope was a piece of work and a great find – for Sam, it was the best thing she'd discovered in the entire Games so far, with the exceptions of Storm and Gannet. Children of families involved in ranching and breeding learned to work with ropes from the ground up in District 10, using the utilitarian equipment in anything from securing horses to controlling unruly cattle before the onset of a storm. Sam had originally hoped to find a rope to fashion into a basic lariat that could be used as a ranged snare weapon – she'd seen a tribute from District 4 in a prior games who had fashioned a net out of vine and had used it in similar fashion to lethal effectiveness – but the flail of the boy from District 11 had given her a different inspiration.

Three decent-sized rocks and splitting the rope ends gave Sam the beginnings of basic bolas. She'd used them before – not really to any practical effect, but more because of Jake's insistence that she learn something every chance she got. Regardless, anything that could take out a horse or bull's legs at distance would be more than effective against a tribute. Not only did it give Sam ranged punch, but it'd also be useful up close if she lost her kukri somehow. Being unprepared against the Careers would be a fate so unpleasant that she'd make sure it never happened.

"Sam, that's just unsightly," Storm remarked as he and Gannet came back, with Sam finishing her rope weapon. "You left a dead thing in the middle of the desert."

Gannet looked on the verge of vomiting at the sight of the vulture finishing its pickings along the rump of the skinned camel.

"I have a blanket!" Sam exclaimed with a smile, holding up the hide. "It's hairy. And it was dead anyway."

"Doesn't that smell?"

"Well…you smell too."

"Oh-hoa!" Storm laughed. "You can make jokes and blankets. I have this tally going on why I would sponsor you, and it's getting long now."

_Gee, Storm, you don't have to make it so obvious. I guess Gannet was right_, Sam thought.

"Anyway," she said, trying to make Gannet feel included. "I know it's only the afternoon, but I kinda like this spot with the rocks here."

"So soon?" Storm scratched his head. "We have a lot of daylight left…"

"No, that's a good idea," Gannet spoke up with a stutter. "We found something and I dunno why it was there."

The girl dropped one thing Sam absolutely didn't expect – a full metal water bottle, attached to a silver parachute.

"Um…" Sam tried to make sense of it. Why would they send water? They didn't have a lot, but enough to keep them going for some time. "Did you get sent that?"

"No, it was just…_lying_ there," Gannet said.

"It smells and tastes okay," Storm shrugged. "I figure the owner got offed or missed it. Their loss."

"Let's boil it anyway," Sam suggested, eying the water bottle oddly. It was strange to be just left out there...a trap, maybe? Or really just some tribute being stupid or dead? "Besides, I need a fire to cook some of the meat off that cow-horse thing."

Leftover wood from the canyon floor made up a respectable fire, and Sam wasn't concerned about others finding them up here. She slowly grew to accept Storm's notion; eventually, they'd have to run into someone dangerous, whether that was the Careers or whoever else. There was no going around that, and this open expanse played well into Sam's strengths. Here they'd get a good sight of someone coming and had more than enough room to maneuver; it was just a drier version of the prairie back home, really. Less animals, but still dusty.

The camel tasted bland and stringy, but it was plentiful and filling. Mixed with the remainder of the fish, the three tributes managed to put together one of their more filling suppers. They each had more than enough meat for the following day and the day after, drying out part of the camel meat to keep longer. The carcass had been a bountiful find.

Lying against one of the boulders and frying camel on a skewer made of a rib bone, Sam felt oddly relaxed. Storm had more than enough talk to keep the three going, and with less concern about detection, they could enjoy each other's stories and chatter by the fireside into the early evening.

"I'd only actually seen my mentor – my older mentor who I'm not related to – once before I got Reaped," Storm recollected after the meal. "His name's Haymitch, and he's known by everyone as a drunk. I was actually buying bread from the family that owns the bakery in the town square, people called the Mellarks, when he stumbles in drunk as a skunk. This was about a year ago, so pretty recently, and he hasn't gotten over the habit. Not even close."

"Anyway, Haymitch comes in and starts ranting about someone out to get him and 'his precious,'" Storm continued on, animating the scene with his hands. "Just as I'm about to leave in fear that he'll gore me with the empty bottle he's holding or something, he just passes out. Right there in the bakery shop. Stone drunk."

Sam giggled. "What did you do?"

"I actually got my uncle, since he's also a victor," Storm answered. "He and Mr. Mellark, the baker, had to half-carry, half-drag Haymitch back to his house in the Victor's Village. It was really stupid at the time, but now it's just…still stupid, but really funny."

Right as he finished his tale, an ear-splitting female scream shot over the desert. Storm kicked the fire dead with sand, grabbing his spear as Sam picked the kukri up from the ground. It had been near and very prominent – someone was on the verge of dying, and as the death count hadn't sounded out for the day, it'd doubtless have another face to show.

"It's close," Storm breathed, his back pressed to the boulders that shielded the three from seeing whatever – or whoever – it was. "I'm gonna have a look."

With the rising night concealing his whereabouts against the rocks, Storm stuck his head out over the rock formation. Sam took a glimpse between several of the rocks, and immediately saw trouble.

No doubt the fire had been spotted. Stumbling towards the trio came Kevlar, the girl from District 8 who had been courted as an ally by both Storm and the boy from 7, Ash. She had a bad leg by the look of it – maybe where the scream had come from – and although she was moving as fast as she could go, it was barely more than a trot. It'd never carry her to safety. Walking slowly behind as if to savor their waiting kill came three human forms. Sam barely could make them out in the little light of the evening, but as they drew closer, they were unmistakable.

District 1, 2, and 4 – Fresco, Hadrian, and Cascade.

Careers.


	24. Gannet

_**A/N: Yeah, if blood isn't your thing…well you've been warned for this chapter. Just a disclaimer for the faint of heart.**_

* * *

><p>"Where are you going?" Fresco laughed, his voice unnatural and airy. "Where are you running to, <em>girl<em>?"

Kevlar kept stumbling towards the rock formation, and Sam had a choice to make here – and no option was good. The girl from District 8 provided great cover that would likely give her time to take down one of the Careers with the bolas in a surprise strike; it wouldn't be a kill, but it could certainly wound. Furthermore, that'd leave the other two outnumbered by the three of them and could scare them off. The only problem would be that it'd be using Kevlar as bait – and it was doubtful she'd survive that sort of approach.

The other option was the noble one; stick up for the wounded girl and hit the Careers in a frontal attack. Low probability of success there, but the numbers were still on their side. Could save Kevlar, could possibly even dissuade them from attacking at all…or it could get everyone killed. It was risky. Too risky for Sam.

Unfortunately not for Storm, whose rashness far exceeded Sam's calculating mind.

"We can get them now! Come on," Storm almost seemed to relish the moment as he turned the rock formation, wielding his spear in both hands and ready for action.

Gannet was petrified on Sam's other side. She was armed with the wooden spear, but neither she nor Sam was the physical match for a Career that Storm was. Now that a straight-up assault had been decided on, things were in play much faster.

"C'mon, get your spear, let's go," Sam waved to her. "Stay next to me. Maybe we don't have to kill everyone."

Sam took the bolas up in her right hand and the kukri in her left, giving her a chance to hit with range before the Careers could approach. It was a stroke of luck that none of the three aggressors were equipped with bows or throwing knives; Fresco had apparently discarded his tomahawks of earlier and now wielded a thick broadsword. Cascade carried a bident loosely beside him, while the most dangerous weapon – Hadrian's colossal halberd – looked absolutely lethal in the night. The boy from District 2 would be a different beast altogether.

Gannet and Sam came across the boulders just as the Careers had held up with Storm's appearance. Kevlar weakly looked between the two trios, caught in no-man's land in a deadly game of chicken.

"Where she's running to," Storm led off. "Doesn't matter. Why don't you get out of here before you all get hurt?"

"Why don't you take your band of misfits and leave," Fresco responded, obviously the leader. His face was obscured in the night, leaving only a shadowy form in the darkening evening. "Maybe we'll let you run while we butcher this one."

"Just let me kill them now," Hadrian's deep, throaty voice sounded unhinged, his words laced with bloodlust. "He's the only big one. Those other three are nothing."

"Take your best shot," Storm taunted.

"Maybe I will," Hadrian lashed back, taking a step forward and thrusting his shoulder out as intimidation. Even in the darkness it was impossible to miss his musculature. "Which one of these bitches do you love the most? I'll slit that one's fucking throat in front of you, let her _bleed_ out and writhe around in the sand 'til she's dead."

"Settle," Fresco waved off Hadrian as if keeping his chained feral dog back. "We can be civilized. I'll repeat what I said. You leave, take your two with you, and we'll…temporarily forget we saw you. Spare you what Hadrian here will do if you don't take it."

Cascade hadn't done as much as move throughout the entire proceeding, and Sam began to get worried. Hadrian was simply a loose cannon – a big and brutal one albeit, but a cannon nonetheless. But what was the boy from 4, Gannet's district-mate, hiding?

"What do you think?" Sam piped up, nearly shouting at the Careers and directing her question at the boy from 4. "Cascade, isn't it? You're kinda quiet. You don't sound like you want to go along with this."

Hadrian snarled, a low, animal thing, at Sam. Cascade's reaction was entirely different.

"I'm the only real tribute from District 4," he replied, his voice far different than what Sam had imagined – it sounded waxy, untamed, and a shade sharp on an eerily high pitch. "I want to make it that way permanently."

Gannet took an involuntary step back at Cascade's deliberate targeting of her – and Hadrian smelled blood in the water.

"I'm taking that one _now,_" he growled, breaking out of Fresco's control and sprinting forward at a loping gait right at Sam.

That was that, then.

Kevlar never stood a chance. As Hadrian trotted right past her, Fresco strode up to the scrambling injured girl and struck with the sword. In one quick motion her head was separated from her neck, her body slumping over to the ground. While Hadrian closed in, however, Sam had the quickest glance at something very odd – the other two Careers held back, as if waiting for Hadrian's moves to come. She thought it was a delaying action at first, but before the burly boy from District 2 closed into combat range, she had a flashing insight.

_They want us to burn ourselves out killing him – to put down their wild dog for them_._ Fresco doesn't want to fight_.

Hadrian wasn't an ally to them; just a savage, if useful, tool. Unfortunately, they'd have to play right into Fresco and Cascade's game.

The boy from District 2 let out a roar as he swung the long polearm with the axe blade of the halberd, ripping it downward at Sam. She dodged the undisciplined blow easily, scrambling aside as Storm stepped in to assist. Hadrian was far too fast for him, however, knocking aside his spear and using the butt end to whip him in the face. Storm let out a cry and stumbled back as the burly boy from 2 brought the weapon end to bear. A quick block by Sam and her kukri ensured Storm lived to keep fighting, but Hadrian had switched to using his halberd like a quarterstaff – he was more than capable of engaging two untrained targets at once and still win.

_The idiot is really going to go three-on-one…_

Unfortunately, "the idiot"came trained in that, too. As Fresco and Cascade merely watched on with looks of amusement, waiting to pick over the remainder, Hadrian skillfully swatted away a weak attempt from Gannet's spear and drove an elbow into her temple. She squeaked in pain and fell to the sandy floor as Hadrian diverted his attention back to Storm's incoming blow, parrying it and holding his spear thrusts back.

Sam hit paydirt as Hadrian's attention was off, swinging her bolas rocks right into his knee. He grunted in pain and stumbled to one knee, yet still managed to knock aside her swing of the kukri. Hadrian was engaging in a battle he could ultimately not win, yet his bloody rage and supreme confidence ensured he wouldn't go down without bringing out every ounce of effort his combatants could give.

The other two Careers knew that, unfortunately.

Hadrian delivered a headbutt to Storm's face, knocking him back and catching Sam with a surprising burst of speed. He rammed the butt of his halberd into her stomach, knocking the kukri from her left hand and driving her to the ground. She only had time to gasp as he whipped the axe blade in for a killing strike. Hadrian's eyes gleamed in ecstasy – his threat to Storm would be fulfilled as he launched Sam's head flying off into the arena night with a powerful swing.

Gannet wouldn't let him take her so easily.

The little girl from 4 had recovered from the elbow, extending her arm and spear to stop Hadrian's halberd before it connected. He snarled in retaliation, hooking her wooden spear on the curved spike of the halberd and wrenching it from her hands. Storm moved in for support, but Gannet's shock of the ferocity of the move gave Hadrian all the time he needed. As Sam got to her feet and whipped the bolas in preparation to throw, Hadrian knocked away a blow from Storm's spear with his polearm's butt and swung the halberd axe in a perfect semicircle into Gannet.

Gannet's cry of surprise and shock caught Sam just as she released the bolas, letting the rocks fly straight and true into Hadrian's kneecaps. She didn't even realize the spatter of blood – Gannet's blood, her _ally_'s blood – that had jumped onto her face as the boy from 2 gaped in pain and went down, one knee cracking and the other bending unnaturally inwards. Storm finished the job, seizing the moment and driving the spear straight into Hadrian's neck.

It had come too late for Gannet, however.

Fresco and Cascade had their opportunity, but with his rival dead, the boy from 4 deflated. He had no more dog in the fight – and Fresco, who had wanted to avoid collateral damage in the first place, was now faced with too much of an even fight. He looked down at the three dead and dying tributes, spitting on the desert floor and staring at Sam straight in the eye. Something in him spoke of uncertainty, however – as if he didn't want to lose more when something else was lurking.

_There were only three Careers here_, Sam's mind inadvertently thought in a hurry as she squared off with Fresco, kukri back in hand. _Where's your District 1 pal? Where's Royal?_

"Impressive," Fresco managed with a spiteful twist to his voice. "But maybe not next time. As you were…10 and 12."

The boy from 1 signaled Cascade with a wave and picked up Kevlar's seizing headless corpse, backing away with it as a human shield for a hundred meters before dumping it and starting off into a trot. Sam had no desire for a chase anyway – they had done all the damage in her eyes as she realized what Hadrian had done. She rushed over to the bleeding girl from 4, sinking to her knees in front of Gannet as two _boom!_ cannon shots sounded out – Kevlar and Hadrian.

"Gannet, Gannet please stay with me," Sam didn't mince words or try to cover up the wound as she grabbed the girl's hands in her own. "Just stay with me."

Sam finally saw the wound for all it was – and just managed to suppress a cry of horror. It wouldn't be a quick and painless death for the little girl from the sea, but a horrific one. Hadrian's halberd had hewn straight through Gannet's torso, ripping out viscera and muscle. The first stages of moonlight began shining down on the desert floor, illuminating shiny reflections off Gannet's blood in ghastly pale light. She didn't see her own grievous injury, but Sam had no doubts that she could certainly feel it.

"S-Sam," Gannet managed to eke out as her face scrunched up in agony and fear. "Sam…"

"I'm right here," Sam cooed. "I'm not going anywhere, Gannet. I'm not leaving you."

For all Gannet's pain, she held on tightly to Sam's hands for the next minute. Her breaths came out in labored pants, struggling against the inevitability of Hadrian's gaping slash. Sam held back all the emotions that pounded against her skull for Gannet's sake, staying brave to keep her calm and give her some peace.

The desert had gone perfectly silent. Storm was some distance away, but Sam had tuned out everything but right there and then. No birds called out in the night; no owls hooted, no insects chirped. Only Gannet's small breaths let Sam know she could even still hear.

"Stay…with him," Gannet managed to speak before coughing up a mouthful of blood. "He'll keep you safe."

"I will," Sam patted her hand and kept her gaze squarely in the girl's dimming green eyes. "Don't you worry, Gannet. You did great. You did all you could. Saved my life."

The girl from 4 managed to lift a little smile as her eyes drooped, getting out every last word she could. "I wish I could go back to the water one more time. But you're still my friend…Sam. I'm happy I got to know you."

"And you'll always be mine," Sam replied softly, her blue eyes filling up with tears. "Always."

Gannet exhaled long and slowly into the night air. For a moment, Sam thought she saw something rising from her body – perhaps she imagined it, but the girl from the sea seemed to be sending herself away from this desolate place and reaching back for a faraway home. Gannet's head slumped back against the dirt with finality and a glaze took over her eyes – Sam had spoken the last words she could to her ally. Her friend.

_Boom!_

Sam leaned over and kissed her forehead, reaching up to close her eyes. "Good night, Gannet. You won't be hurting for long."


	25. Closing the Gap

She'd made it to the final eight, but the Games were taking their toll.

Sam spent the night in various states of hysterics or fitful sleep, taking the first watch to expunge the oceans of adrenaline that coursed its way through her veins. Without Gannet by her side and only accompanied by the sleeping Storm, Sam felt small and alone under the night sky. When she traded spots later and tried to get sleep, she pulled the camel blanket tight enough around her to nearly cut off her circulation.

Why had she been spared? She who had two deaths and an assist to her name, who had no redeeming quality in her own eyes – yet they'd taken the purest spirit in the Games, the tribute who couldn't even dream of taking a life yet willingly tossed aside hers for another? Sam realized now the things that Gannet had that she didn't: courage, self-sacrifice, bravery even through fear. Sam had none of those; just an insatiable drive to survive that had tossed aside the little girl from District 4 like an unnecessary utensil. It wasn't noble, nor remotely heroic. Sam was simply a survivor to this point of the Games; just as the Capitol wanted.

Now she understood why Storm had no drive to win. These atrocities would never leave you; there was no victor. She'd never forget Gannet; not just for the good things, but for the terrible sight of the previous night.

Low-clinging fog and a cool morning topped with stratus clouds did nothing to improve Sam's spirit. Storm had taken the entire thing well, playing with the halberd he'd retrieved from Hadrian as she awoke.

"This thing's pretty useful," he mentioned to her as she rubbed her puffy eyes. "Gives us a leg up."

"Get rid of it," Sam grunted.

"What?"

"Get _rid_ of it!" she snapped at him. The sight of the weapon that had killed the third member of their party was bad enough; Storm's enthusiasm of getting a new killing device was far worse. She needed no reminder of the reality that accompanied the Games to this point.

"Okay, okay," Storm dropped the weapon, holding up his hands. "I'll bury it. Okay."

Sam pulled the blanket around her as Storm kicked sand over the halberd. She couldn't tolerate his words right now when all she wanted to do was curl up and go home – was that too much to ask for? To let a girl who had just had to watch a friend brutally murdered go back to the only place she'd ever found a place in?

"Sam, are you okay?" Storm asked.

"No, I'm not. I'm really not," she gritted her teeth. Gannet had told her to stay with Storm, yet here she was berating him for every comment. She really couldn't help it.

"She wouldn't want you to lose it all now," Storm sat down beside her, pulling his arms around Sam's blanket-wrapped body. "You meant a lot to her. If you win, it'll make everything she did worth it – but you can't do that if you just sit here."

"I know," Sam pouted. Unfortunately, he was right.

Storm grasped her pinky in his hand, holding it for a moment as he looked down at her. "She wasn't the only one looking after you."

Sam bit her lip and looked away. This wasn't a conversation she wanted to be having now, no matter what she felt. For now, she needed to be up and moving – to keep going, for her sake or Gannet's.

"You said you wanted to go to the Cornucopia," she spoke up, keeping her eyes downcast. "Guess we should go."

She tied the camel blanket clumsily onto the backpack with the last of the twine and kept her two weapons close at hand. Storm carried both his own spear and Gannet's makeshift wooden weapon – between the two of them, they had enough of an arsenal to pose a good threat to any other tributes looking for a fight. The other two Careers hadn't looked for battle the previous night after Hadrian's demise, but they could certainly be prowling now during the daylight. Worse, there were still four other tributes – including Royal, who had almost taken out Sam five minutes into the Games – moving around the arena. By now it'd be much harder for them to come together; certainly the Gamesmakers had something up their sleeves to keep up the killing.

"_Rex doesn't like to go a day without a death…_"

Dallas's words came back to Sam as she began moving along the fog-lined desert top. Would the Head Gamesmaker give them a day off after six kills in three days? Would he be pushing the pace? It'd only been seven days (seven days! It felt like a lifetime,) but Sam remembered previous Games that had ended inside a week. The longest drew out to two weeks, but with the escalating death count, she figured this wouldn't be one of them.

"What do you think they're asking during interviews back home?" Storm popped the question after a half-hour of walking in silence. "'Cuz, you know, we're in the final eight now. Everybody back in the districts gets questioned."

"I dunno," Sam shrugged. "Probably stupid stuff."

"It's probably crazy in District 12," Storm said. "Well, comparatively crazy. Haven't had two in the final eight since…I dunno, I guess not since the 74th. Long time."

"What happens when you meet her?" Sam asked.

"Haven't really thought about that," Storm replied, understanding the implied "her" being his district partner. "She was a lil' too nondescript. I don't think I'll have much trouble doing what I have to, but I figure the Careers will get her first. She…wasn't really the fighting type."

"It's her, the girls from 5 and 9, the two Careers, Royal, and us," Sam counted up the remaining tributes. "I don't think 5, 9, or your other person from 12 will be super killers, since it seems most of the people since the Cornucopia who died have crossed paths with us. Only the girl from 11 really hasn't."

"That's…a little weird," Storm mused. "It's almost like they're funneling the other tributes at us. Maybe since we're a team and all…I guess the others are probably working independently, then; maybe just struggling to find food and water."

Sam didn't figure how that would be the case. Food and water had been relatively easy to find; Dallas's assertion that the Gamesmakers liked providing such things easily to stave off "boring" deaths had been right on the money. To her knowledge, everyone but the unknown girl from 11 who had died had done so through combat with a mutt or another tribute – and the girl from 11 might have, as well. If nobody had fallen victim to starvation, dehydration, or related things yet, then the likelihood they would in the ending days of the Games was small.

The late morning walk near the edge of the canyon brought a new venture by the Gamesmakers – and satisfied Sam's lingering questions on how the tributes would be brought together. A thundering rush of noise poured out from every corner of the arena, causing both she and Storm to draw weapons – but what happened was far more devious.

Billions of gallons of water poured down the canyon in a colossal flash flood, spraying mist through the hanging fog and crushing anything still remaining on the canyon floor. There would be no going back to the bottom to avoid detection and hide from probing eyes. Now, everyone was on the same plain; there was no more hiding.

"Well," Storm fretted as the flood worked its way down the canyon. It was no danger to them, but it was an unexpected setback. "I guess we can go swimming if we want to go back the way we came."

The deluge provided a unique benefit, however. Armed, with a source of warmth in the camel blanket, a renewed water source, enough dried food to keep going for a few days, and two eyes looking out for danger, Sam began to wonder what else they really needed to win. The Careers seemed to have something else on their minds – Royal, maybe – while the other kids had made no impression on her during the pre-arena events. She didn't want to presume that they were odds-on favorites, since dealing with Fresco and Cascade would be brutal, but…what else was there, now?

That explained the lack of parachutes, as well. Sam figured she and Storm had to be raking in some sponsorship money after several survived confrontations, yet they'd only had the healing agent she'd received after the scorpion mutt's attack and the earlier meal. Sure, there was the odd water bottle find, but that wasn't their parachute. Dallas and Storm's mentors had to be holding back for something, waiting with donations for the right time to drop in. What was that time?

Furthermore, what-

"Sam, stop!"

She froze in her tracks at Storm's command, eyes up and hand going for her weapon. What had drawn his attention wasn't a tribute, however, but far more lethal. The new waterway that had filled the canyon gorge had brought its own danger: a rippling in the water carried its way down the fast-moving current, and something about it was oddly familiar.

"Oh no," Sam whispered.

She'd seen that before. The edge of a violet piece of skin – rubbery and coated in suckers – broke the surface of the water just long enough to be seen before it dipped back under. _Of course the mutt hadn't been taken out; it's water-going_. The flood had just let the…_thing_…that had taken Laredo's life loose on the arena as a whole.

Well, that was a good way to get tributes killed.

"Let's try not to make any river crossings unless we absolutely have to," Storm said – he'd seen the break in the water as well.

"You think that's how they're gonna drive us together?" Sam's voice trembled. "Mutts? Worse?"

"Not if I can help it," Storm said. "Not gonna let another one of those things get at you."

Sam smiled wryly. "As much as I want to say 'thanks,' they're not just letting us stand around out here forever. They already took away the canyon."

"Then we're just going to have to make our own way, huh?" Storm clapped her on the shoulder. "You and I. Together we'll figure something out. You're smart after all, and I'm…good at hitting things."

"Oh so I'm making the plans?" Sam laughed. "I thought that was you."

"No, you're telling me how bad my plans are," Storm poked fun. "See? Teamwork. Watch this great plan of mine in action."

Storm picked up a rock and stared straight at it, as if it was a camera. "I'm Storm Hawthorne from District 12, and _this_ is my favorite sponsorship solicitation message in the Hunger Games."

"That's not gonna work!" Sam slapped away the rock playfully. "They're probably laughing at you right now."

"Look at the great teamwork, though," Storm held up a finger like a professor. "That's worth a few bucks right there."

_He's done it_, Sam thought in a moment of clarity. _He's managed to draw me away from all the killing and death, just like that. This morning I'm crying over Gannet, and now I've entirely forgotten it and am laughing with him. How does he do that?_

Storm gave her physical protection – that much was obvious – but what Sam finally saw was the other walls he built around her. In a horrible situation of death and fatalism, he kept her spirits up when someone weaker would have crumbled. He kept going when a lesser mind would collapse and fall down. Without him, Sam figured she'd be curled up in the fetal position on the sandy turf – if not straight out raving insane. Multiple people killed, and she still had coherent thoughts – how much of that was due to Storm and his protective aura, his infections personality?

Later in the day, however, the upbeat voice of old Claudius Templesmith alerted Sam to who was still in control.

The sun had begun to creep towards the horizon when the trumpets played out. There hadn't been any deaths, and no doubt the audience was craving violence after the action-packed prior two days. The Gamesmakers wouldn't tolerate this sort of lull now that they had built up the intensity.

"_Tributes, fighters," _Claudius's voice surprised both Sam and Storm during their walk. "_We congratulate you on making the final eight. You are all on the cusp of taking home victory for the glory of your district. However, none of you have gotten quite far enough. Some of you may believe you have everything needed to succeed...unfortunately, what you cannot see may be your worst enemy_."

Sam felt the goosebumps rising, even though the fog and clouds had lifted long ago. It was as if he was targeting Storm and her individually, what with their supplies and armament. What you cannot see?

"_Some of you are in need of food, water, basic supplies. You will find that tomorrow around the Cornucopia_."

"Forget that," Storm dismissed. "We have all that."

"_The rest of you are in need of something...less material_," Claudius went on, his voice turning seductive. "_You will be rewarded for your attendance, of course. But what you really need is an…opportunity. You know who you are. Tomorrow at noon; you'll not want to be late_."

The trumpets sounded again and Claudius was gone. The way he had let "opportunity" hand in the air chilled Sam. What did that mean? Sure, they had to kill the other tributes, but there was no rush. Was that aimed at the Careers?

Then she had a chilling realization.

"Sounds like a trap," Storm said. "As much as I want to knock off the Careers, it's not worth it."

"I don't, uh," Sam struggled to overcome the reality of the words she'd heard. "I don't think it's negotiable."

"What?" Storm asked. "Feasts are never required. You go if you need something. It's bait."

"'You'll not want to be late,' is what he said," Sam repeated Claudius's line. "He's telling us something, Storm. Between the flooding of the canyon, the…feast, I guess, and all the killing over the past two days. We don't have a choice."

"It's...the Capitol still in control," Storm saw what she was saying grimly. "Show up or die."


	26. The Quintessential Myth

**District 10**

Clara's foot tapped against the wood floor of the Justice Building as she waited in a small chair. Two weeks; that's all it had been since the Capitol had ripped her best friend from here in District 10, yet now they just wanted to interview her about Sam. All sorts of probing questions that she was obliged to answer yet didn't want to: When did you first get to know her? How would you describe her and your friendship in your own words? What have you made of her survival into the final eight tributes? What odds would you give her of becoming a victor?

Do you think she'll betray her ally from District 12?

Clara knew her answers could be the difference in securing a wealthy person's sponsorship in the Capitol, but what business did they have trying to get that information? Sam was her _friend_, not an objective thing useful for placing bets and wagers. She wasn't some animal in a cage fight, but a person. Why couldn't they see that?

Bastards.

The oak door opened with a start and Clay walked out, looking more than a little shell-shocked at the fanfare of cameras.

"What'd they ask you?" Clara piped up instantly, running a hand through her blonde hair, made up for the occasion.

"Basic stuff. Kind of person she is, my thoughts on her success so far, that kinda thing," he brushed away the interview details. "Nothing I wanted to tell them, but don't really have a choice, huh?"

"It's stupid," Clara bemoaned. "You think they'd already know this, what with their happy band of Peacekeepers and all the stuff beforehand. They have to come here, too?"

"They do every year," Clay shrugged, as if it was a routine thing. "It's just that we never have anybody in the last eight. Lucky for us that Sam got there...her brother's in there now. Doubt that'll be fun for him."

"You act like it's so casual."

"You think I like it?" he scoffed. "I thought Sam was dead meat on day 1. Sorry to be a downer, I like her as much as anyone…but c'mon, there's big kids and all in the Games. I'm shocked enough she's actually killed people, much less that big oaf from 2. Just being realistic."

Clara fretted and stuck her hands into the folds of her dress. "Let's get out of here. I don't wanna stick around with those leeches in there."

"You know, it's probably not a great idea to think out loud sometimes," Clay mused sarcastically. "Free speech isn't really something we have a lot of. But yeah. I don't really wanna stay here either."

A pervasive layer of cloud cover topped District 10, casting the dusty town square in a dark pallor even in the late afternoon. The summer brought plenty of daylight and it'd stay bright enough before the homes and buildings with electricity began to glow for the night, but the entire district seemed in a depressed state. The great screens in the square that carried 24/7 coverage of the Games had a spotlight on Constantine and Claudius's coverage of the announcement of the feast of the next day; Constantine's mint green hair seemed especially animated as he enthusiastically discussed the ramifications and who would live or die. Smaller screens broadcasted individual footage of each remaining tribute, including one that followed Storm and Sam around. Sam had garnered considerable support within the district, but the class structure could never be truly defeated – some of the poorest citizens of District 10 resented that a wealthier tribute was the one representing District 10, while the comparatively poor Laredo had met his end between her kukri and the Capitol's aquatic mutt.

"What's she doing? I don't wanna watch," Clara asked spitefully as they departed the square.

"Um…pitching rocks into that big flooded canyon, apparently," Clay looked up at the screens. "I guess that's how you have fun in the arena. With that…other guy."

"What, are you jealous of him?"

"No! Yes. I dunno, she yells at him half the time. She never did that to me. You have to know how I feel about her."

"It's just the stress," Clara said. "She'll be back to her bubbly self when she gets home."

"You really think that?" Clay asked the hard question. "You think she just transforms without any repercussions from the nice sweet girl with the ribbons in her ponytail to someone who's already killed twice, watched the little girl she was looking after get eviscerated by the thug from 2, and will have to deal with losing that…_guy_ from 12 she's following around _and_ killing the Career guys and that sadistic girl from 1 – who, mind you, had no trouble killing the girl from 2 at the Cornucopia? You think she just becomes sweet again after something like that? Oh yeah, she just has to deal with all the poor people like my family who don't even like her now that she waxed Laredo."

Clara picked a fingernail to avoid the question. Clay was right, undoubtedly – no matter what either thought of Sam, no matter how many excuses they could put aside (and rightfully so) for her actions in the arena, she'd always be scarred by the events that were unfolding.

"How can you blame her for killing Laredo?" Clara finally brought up, looking to vent.

"I don't," Clay said. "Of course not. It's Sam; she saved him from getting mauled by that…whatever that is that was swimming around with a mercy kill. That guy seemed like the dull tool in the shed, anyway. But we live in a district that's got some pretty serious wealth gaps, Clara. When he's poor and he dies, yet she's wealthier and she's still alive after District 10 has been stomped for the last decade…well, they're gonna have questions."

Clara didn't see the difference. "That's stupid. So the Parkers have some money. Big deal. She's a person. She's from District 10. Why's that not enough? We have hope for once."

"It's easier to think that when we're her friends," Clay explained. "But these other people who work over at the slaughterhouse or at the dairy plant, they don't have much. They see it just as another Capitol thing. Rich versus poor. It's not how it should be, but it's how it is. People are only going to see what they want to see; try to show them what there is, and they'll cling to their beliefs."

"Whatever," Clara wanted to get off the topic. Her family, the Bowies, also had money, after all. "I guess we'll just have to look out for her more when she gets back."

"If," Clay reminded. "I hope she does, but the competition's still tight. I don't want to get all my hopes up just to have them get slammed."

"Oh you're nice," Clara grimaced. "What a friend. What're you gonna tell here then when she gets off the train?"

"I'll say I always knew she'd come back."

"You're such a bad liar."

* * *

><p><strong>The Capitol – Games Control Room Executive Suite<strong>

"I spoke with Octavian yesterday. Do you know what it is he wished to discuss?"

Rex took a seat across from Trajan at the great wooden table of the Control Room's Executive Suite. In here things were not so busy – while his associate took care of business back in the blue-lit, technology-laced Control Room itself, here things were far more subdued. Cherry paneling lined yellow-lit walls, with a grand chandelier of crystal and jasper hanging from a jade-specked ceiling.

"I'd presume the Games," Trajan took his seat, offering up the logical reply. "It is what's going on. What you do."

"A rational mind would think so," Rex affirmed. "But he did not. He spoke of wine. Told me of an import from historical Dauphine, in the former nation of France. That it survived the pre-Panem extinction crisis is miraculous, I will agree – but there is little to be learned in wine, unless holistic health benefits are your interest."

The Head Gamesmaker clinked a crystal glass of ice down on the table and poured himself bourbon before continuing. "It is an interesting thing, how the human mind works. Logic is discarded for emotion. Octavian's petulant interests reflect that: he is a man content with his sport and charm. Doubtless he is the correct leader then for a Capitol full of ultimately _human_ people; I question whether such wisdom applies to districts that confront far more black-and-white choices."

"That's why he has subordinates. You and I," Trajan commented. "We carry out the work."

"Quite an inefficient system. It dilutes the message the further down the chain it is carried, injecting human biases and personal beliefs. It is not pure. It is dirty, unclean. Irrational. It's a systemic virus of self-replicating bigotries in such a nation that we govern."

Rex took a drink and lifted his gleaming, electronic eyes to meet Trajan's stony look. "He mentioned you. Likes what you do in the districts and here in the Capitol. As you keep the districts under control and subdued, he believes you guide them in the right choice. He is correct, undoubtedly – but his reasoning is not. He is not a man concerned with the why; only the _how_. He lives in the present. It is not too different than my fellow Gamesmakers, really."

"They too, like the Capitol and its citizens that we live amongst, live in the present. They are not rational men like you and I; they simply see things as they are, rather than _why_ they are. Take the female tribute from District 10 who I spoke to you about during tribute training. She graded well enough that I would have given her a distinctly high score. She showed less about _what_ she is then she did about _who_ she is – and thus _why_. That is a far more important question, and conclusion, if we are to see things logically."

"Yet she received a five – and here she is now in the final eight in these Games. Citizens on the street will say a combination of luck and fortuitous opportunity gave her this chance. They do not know there is no luck – she was always strong enough to win, despite her strength coming from the brain rather than the brawn. It was simply unseen. Logic clouded by vapid emotional constructs. We like our muscled behemoths and beautiful women; we don't like the diminutive girl from the backwater district who has the brains to compete with anyone."

"You can't say it's luck when it's a sculpted Games," Trajan countered, reflecting his bias against the event itself. "You design the arena, craft events, throw out obstacles and dictate who lives and dies. Everything in it is geared towards individual results. There is no choice in this matter; there is no luck. In everyday situations it's different."

"Right you are about choice in the arena," Rex nodded, taking a drink. "There is no choice. My predecessor, Seneca Crane, was once told by the previous president, Snow, that we hold the Games for hope. To give the districts something to hope for…tell me, do you agree?"

"No," Trajan responded flatly. "It's a control mechanism and an entertainment device, and a poor one at that. There's far better ways to exercise control then to take children and throw them at each other in a game of death. It breeds resentment, not complacency."

"If Octavian was a smart man, he would listen to you," Rex said. "But he is not such a smart man, you see? The Games are an entertainment modicum for a Capitol – and a president – that does not understand how human existence operates. Once more, they fail to see the _why_ – they see the _what_, in that the districts do not rebel, and have not since the Games were established. Yet that's not the why. It's not hope these Games generate, nor control."

"Hope is interesting. It is the pinnacle of human myth; full of strength for believers, yet showing their greatest weaknesses to the minds of reason. In times of prosperity such notions are cast aside. Once more, let's use the female tribute from District 10 as an example. She has hope, does she not? You could say she is the quintessential standard of Snow and Crane's hope; from a district that never wins, and as a young girl without physical brawn or extensive survival training. Yet she persists – for what? For hope that she can return home. So human."

"Yet it is also a weakness. See how she considers every opportunity; how she deals with her allies. How her younger ally from District 4 was killed, and the effect it had on her mental state. That same hope and faith is slowly killing her, bit by bit. If she survives – and I would not count her out, like many betting types have – she will never be whole again. Is that the hope the districts want?"

"Why not just end the Games, then?" Trajan asked. "Seems pointless to me. Not practical at all; waste of resources."

"Well, because it is good sport; because small-minded people like Octavian rule Panem," Rex explained. "We are not a nation guided by logic, Commander. Do you remember what we spoke about the last time we met – the ghost in the machine? The animal brain that overrides logical belief and reasoning? There is your proof. We are a nation of believers."

How did this…unnatural…man get away with speaking such things? Trajan didn't understand that part of it all. Rex was not an idealist by any means; simply a man who had destroyed most of the emotion within himself – his "ghost in the machine," as he so subtly put it. That extremely logical, left-brained approach unnerved Trajan, yet it was by far a more powerful sort of thinking than the spontaneous, short-term leadership approach that President Octavian tossed around.

"You think that's a bad thing?" Trajan inquired, piquing the Head Gamesmaker's mind . "After all, you seem to show reverence to this hope – to this girl from District 10. That's the second time you've mentioned her."

"She is a quandary," Rex took another sip of bourbon. "I would have liked to have met her. I feel she is the smartest tribute on a broad scale of knowledge. Whether or not I will get that opportunity is up to her ability in these last days inside the arena."

"Why not rig your _game_," Trajan pointed out. "Should be easy enough."

"Hope, Commander." Rex smiled with the corners of his mouth. "You let things play out; you give that smallest choice, even if it is not really _choice_ as human beings with brains of emotions perceive it. It's the delusion of hope."


	27. Cornucopia Revisited

_**A/N: In response to developing questions about Rex/Trajan, I owe you guys as readers an explanation: since this story is the first in a multi-story arc, and since I was never quite happy about how Catching Fire just chucked President Snow into the picture without even getting to know the guy, I'm developing these two (as well as Octavian, in absentia) characters to begin to highlight their personalities and how they approach problems. How this comes into play will become more apparent over time; needless to say, they all play important roles.**_ _**I'll try to make it a little less confusing though; that's one concern I've gotten a couple of, and I value each and every critique**_.

* * *

><p>The approach to the Cornucopia led Sam and Storm to an entirely new difficulty on the following day. The golden horn atop the raised desert plateau came sharply into view with the rising sun of the morning, but getting there would require them to cross a narrow natural bridge over the former canyon, now quick-flowing river. They had already spotted the lethal tentacled beast within its confines; who knew what else lurked under the choppy flow of the water?<p>

"Just take it slow, Sam," Storm urged her on as the two sized up the rock bridge. "Take it slow, take it safe. Then we can worry about the kids at the Cornucopia."

Sam felt the goosebumps returning as she looked across the bridge. There weren't heights in District 10 – everything was flat, and the tallest piece of land was the sloping and gentle Midland Hill. Sure, she had nearly fallen off the cliff on the first day in her escape from the Cornucopia, but peering down across a narrow bridge into brackish waters that contained who-knew-what weren't a way to quash unexpected fears.

"Don't look down," she whispered to herself as she stepped a toe out onto the bridge. "Don't look down."

Every step came as measured and deliberate as Sam kept her gaze straight ahead at the opposite cliff edge. About halfway across, Storm's sharp inhale told her something was wrong.

"What?" she asked over her shoulder, keeping her eyes up.

"Nothing," he didn't sound sincere. "Nothing, you're doing great. Halfway there."

The sound from below her told her what was going on, however. A gaping noise slopped up from beneath the bridge, like a toddler smacking peanut butter on a hot summer day. Sam swallowed heavily and slowed her pace – _don't look down, just don't look_. She gritted her teeth and hurried the last fifteen feet across the bridge to the other side, relieved when she reached the comfort of terra firma. As Storm started reluctantly across after her, she finally looked down to see what it was that had alerted her to danger.

Turbulence had started up in the water. Underneath the murky surface, a churning and swishing of the currents indicated the presence of something else…something bad. Seconds later a swath of water fell away and white teeth bore up at the canyon, snapping at the air and Storm's pheromones before sinking underneath the water.

_The Gamesmakers are just following me with that thing…_

"C'mon Storm," Sam urged helpfully. "Almost there."

"Yea, I know what's down there," he said with regret, frowning and continuing across the narrow bridge. "Not a great time to go for a swim, I guess."

"You might scare it away if you tried to swim," Sam offered jokingly, trying to take his mind away from the beast.

"I probably would. It'd involve a lot of flailing and arm-waving and drowning."

He scampered to the other side of the bridge as the mutt moaned and sunk back beneath the water. Whatever the Gamesmakers wanted to do with it, clearly now wasn't the right time. After all, they had a Cornucopia gathering to attend to.

"So…what's our plan now?" Sam asked as the two got moving again. "The Cornucopia's not far away."

"Let's find a place we can bunker down at; get a view of the approach," Storm suggested. "We know somewhere away from us are the cliffs that run down from the plateau, and off to the left somewhere is the tree grove. That means there's not a lot of places people can come from; any we haven't seen yet are probably hidden amongst the trees."

"You remember all that?" Sam sputtered. "All I remember is the trees and falling off the cliff as Royal was shooting at me."

"Well…she could be doing that again," Storm mused. "Since we're not in real _need _of anything serious, let's let someone else make the first move if they want to break from cover. We can see what we're up against that way and plan appropriately. If they're all killing each other, we can make a break for anything good, grab it, and bail."

Sam began to wonder who the smart one of the pair really was. Storm had formulated a sound strategy in a matter of seconds; one that if properly executed would give them a tactical advantage on the Careers. If nothing else, it wouldn't throw their lives away in a useless dogfight for supplies they probably didn't need.

"Claudius mentioned an…opportunity," Sam mentioned. "What do you think that was about?"

"Probably for the Careers," Storm waved it off. "Give them a chance to kill any tributes who were lying in hiding, like the three girls from the other districts. I kinda doubt they all last today."

As the sun rose higher and the two approached the Cornucopia itself, Sam began to notice things looked different than she'd recalled. More cover seemed interspersed around the golden horn that rose into the sky – rocks, shrubs, bushes – and the eucalyptus grove itself seemed to have swelled with extra trees, giving not just a touch of life, but legitimate hiding spots. No doubt the Gamesmakers had been at work modifying the area, making it as presentable and entertaining for viewers in the Capitol as possible.

Couldn't let a good death go to waste.

Storm and Sam bunkered up behind a mound of boulders flanked by thick yucca plants – it gave limited cover, but enough that they'd be hidden from the casual observer and would be able to see anyone coming in for an attack. It was more than defensible; only from the rear were the two vulnerable, and if that came to pass, they still would outnumber anyone but Fresco and Cascade. Neither of the two Careers had ranged weaponry, either, swinging the advantage further away from them.

"Probably any minute now," Storm said quietly after some time had passed. "Alright, it looks pretty basic. Once we see the two Careers and Royal out there, we'll have a better chance of where we're going."

"You think we can get away in the trees?" Sam pointed out. "It's not really dense like a forest, but it'll at least mean we won't get shot by anyone good with arrows."

"Yeah, assuming no one's left hiding in there, that's probably our best getaway," Storm nodded. "I'd prefer ground we already know, but the only thing that encompasses is a lot of ground-up dry desert. We'll just have to take our chances in there."

"Alright," Sam said. "Just…stay close, okay?"

"Yeah," Storm replied. "Yeah, and Sam…just…if one of us doesn't make it out today, there's something I need to say."

Without fanfare, Storm swept up Sam in his arms. Before she had the chance to question what he was doing, their lips connected in a kiss. Sam's mind flailed in confusion, but after a moment of uncertainty she found herself caught in the moment. Something warm and alive stirred within her as she and Storm shared the embrace. She had never kissed a boy like this before – and for a first kiss, she found herself wanting more. Storm backed away after a few seconds, his eyes never leaving Sam's.

"Worth a thousand words," he smiled. "Now c'mon, we got work to do."

But she didn't want that to end. Storm had unearthed a creature she didn't know she had inside her – one that clamored for life, for love, for something beyond being sacrificed to some false Gods in the Capitol for their amusement.

_I don't want this boy to die. Not like this. Not here. Not now_.

Too late for thoughts, however. A red flare shot out of the end of the Cornucopia's horn as the ground opened up. Five wicker mats emerged from the holes in the sand, each containing different items. Two held a pack of food and a bottle of water each; two others held weapons. On one of the latter sat a beautiful chrome bow with a set of arrows – Sam noted that Storm had his eyes set heavily on that – while the other held a long and dangerous curved scimitar. The final mat interested Sam the most, however – on the wicker sat a chrome metal shield, circular in shape and maybe a meter in diameter. Regardless of everything else, that'd offer her a measure of protection in direct combat and disrupt an attacker. It was priceless to her.

But everything had to have a purpose – was it meant for her?

"Remember, wait for them," Storm whispered, and it began.

The olive-skinned, dark-haired girl from 12 – Storm's district-mate – scampered out like a mouse from behind a scrubby bush twenty meters away. She was unarmed and unequipped with anything; likely, she'd only gotten away from the Cornucopia with her life. Based on Storm's descriptions of District 12, Sam wondered how she'd managed all this time.

The party was soon joined. As she ran forward, so too did both the short girl from 9 who Sam had barely even remembered and both the Careers. They'd been hidden relatively close to the Cornucopia, and as the two other girls came forward, Cascade brought his bident to bear in front of him. As he spotted a target and prepared to move in, the boy from District 4 went down.

It was all way too fast. Sam had barely seen the arrow come howling out of the forest before it found Cascade's neck, burrowed nearly up to the fletching. Fresco immediately dove and Sam saw something strange in his eyes – fear.

_Fwoosh!_ Two more gaps in the ground near the beginning of the tree grove opened up and the first Gamesmaker trick was afoot. Sam briefly caught a glimpse of something maybe eight feet in height go bounding into the forest before Storm grabbed her arm.

"C'mon! Now's our chance!"

The girl from 5 came flying out of the edge of the forest. Another arrow flew out from the tree line, catching the girl from 9 in her temple and grounding her as she tried to reach for the scimitar. Finally, out came the eighth and final tribute of the Cornucopia – already having notched two kills and now hounded by two Capitol mutts.

_There she is_.

Royal had stayed fit and sharp during her days in the arena. She clutched a bright silver bow and wore a quiver of arrows – a _lot_ of arrows – as she turned to face her pursuers. Her silver hair flashed in the sunlight when the first mutt emerged. A brightly feathered, two-legged avian built like a moa shrieked and honked as it dashed forward to catch its target. Its huge gray beak ended in a cruel spike that it lunged to use. Royal was faster – as the second mutt cleared the tree line, she nocked an arrow and let it fly into the first creature's eye. It flung itself writhing to the ground, gasping in pain.

Sam didn't think, just ran. Her legs pumped against the dry earth as sights and tributes whipped past her vision; howls from the dying mutt and the second one sparring with Royal roared over the shrieks of the girl from 5, avoiding Fresco's sword. _There, right there!_ She could almost touch the shield as she dove and saw Storm go for the bow. The girl from 12 also went for it, but came up short as Storm hurled Gannet's wooden spear at her without regard for his district-mate. He missed, but she had no choice but to pull back and grab a pack of food. She had just managed to get running when Fresco came down with a vengeance.

Sam felt her fingers connect with the round shield, snatching it up and moving it up her left arm. She brought her head around just in time to see Fresco bring down his sword on the girl from 12, already injured with a huge slash across her leg. Her gray eyes pleaded for mercy as she futilely crawled backwards. Fresco snarled and ripped downwards with the weapon, goring her across the chest and eliciting a final scream from her lungs.

Storm had the bow up and ready as Fresco lunged for him. He sidestepped but fell off-balance from the attack, sending an arrow from the weapon into the ground. Too late – the one miss had given Royal enough time to clear the mutts, and now the silver-headed vixen was on the attack.

An arrow flew into the back of the girl from 5 just as she had almost cleared back into the woods, having already snatched up a water bottle and bag of food. Royal quickly discharged another arrow to finish the job before homing in on the three still battling around the Cornucopia.

_This could be it, Sammy. _

The arrow flew true, but Sam brought the shield up in time. _Thunk!_ She took a step back from the impact of the blow as Fresco bolted away towards the desert flats. Storm let off a shot at Royal – a great shot even, but she was a wily foe. The girl from 1 somersaulted under the aimed headshot, rolled up and launched another round. She proved more accurate. Storm recoiled as the arrow slammed into his right pectoral, grunting in pain.

"Storm!" Sam shouted – _I can't lose him now!_ "Run! Run!"

Sam let her bolas fly, saying good-bye to the weapon in a delaying move. Royal snarled and rolled to avoid the stones, easily clearing the weapon but buying enough time for Sam and Storm to make a break for the grove. The vixen eased up, satisfied with the remaining bounty – the scimitar and all the food and water.

"Don't stop," Storm panted. He'd lost his other spear in the pursuit, now clutching his new bow with one hand and his chest with the other. "Just keep going."

_I will_, Sam thought as eucalyptus trees flew by. _I will._


	28. Together Under the Night

Darkness in the grove was a far different beast than on the canyon surface. Here, shadows of all shapes and sizes bore down in scary patterns and frightening visages. Sam had never been in the wood in District 10 at dark – the worst darkness she'd ever known had come from dark days at home under her father. Here, however, everything felt closer and dangerous. With only four tributes left, everything would soon come to a close. The 98th Hunger Games would undoubtedly be over inside of two days; more likely, the curtain would close tomorrow.

And here Sam was with an injured and sluggish Storm.

The pair had crossed deeper into the grove throughout the afternoon, escaping as far as possible from Royal and Fresco. Sam had completely lost sight of the vixen from District 1 who had been responsible for three cannon shots alone inside of five minutes, and her district-mate had gone flying off into the desert somewhere. Either way, she was willing to bet that they would cross each other before they reached her and Storm. Then…then things would come to a head.

Sam wondered what the Gamesmakers would do to spice up the climax of the Games.

New and improved mutts? Scatter the bodies of dead tributes around like rain? Play with their minds? Rex had all sorts of tools at his arsenal. It wouldn't be hard to find something to entertain the audience with.

"Sam," Storm's weakening voice took Sam's thoughts off of more existential things. "Sam…look…"

"Let's stop, okay?" she replied, helping him to a sitting position on the dry earth. "We can stop for the night here; wait to see what happens."

"Sam no, listen to me," Storm began, breathing hard with pain from Royal's well-placed shot into his chest. "Take the bow and the arrows. There's only four of us left; I can do something…I dunno, draw them off. I can start a fire. Make a basic spear, maybe I can kill Fresco if he comes around."

"No _you_ listen," Sam grabbed his left shoulder and shook, her sapphire eyes boring into his. "I'm not going to leave you here like that. I'm not gonna let those two _monsters_ from 1 kill you like some animal. You're the only thing I have left in this place. I'm going to stick with you until I physically can't."

"Sam, we can't do that forever…"

"I don't care!" she surprised herself with her energy in the response. "I don't care. I don't. I saw how that boy from 1 just murdered the girl from 12 today. He watched Gannet get murdered by Hadrian. I'm not going to let him just toss you aside the same way. I'm going to keep fighting."

Storm smiled and gave up his protests. "Your district better be proud of you when you get home, Sam."

"What d'you mean?" she asked, picking leaves off the nearby trees to stuff as a makeshift bandage for his injury.

"In my district, they say being a victor changes people," Storm said. "Both my mentors, Haymitch and my uncle, gave into alcoholism. Haymitch is horrible about it, and although my uncle's a good enough guy…he doesn't really do anything. Those are examples of people who got scarred by the process; who never really beat anything. They let the Games beat them. I don't know who your mentors are, but I wouldn't be shocked if at least one victor from your district fell the same way."

_Yeah, well Cheyenne did a real good job_, Sam thought.

"But you," Storm laughed and coughed. "Just seven days ago, we were curled up in that cave after Troop's death. We were scared to death of what was coming, crying into each other's shoulder, going off into the unknown in darkness. Four of the Careers were still out there; fourteen total tributes. We had no idea what we had gotten into. But look at you now – you're not some scared girl like the Capitol would like you to be. You're a fighter; a survivor. You were a champion for a little girl from District 4 who had nothing, and now you're a champion for me."

"You're everything a victor should be, yet never is. Nobody but you deserves to win."

Sam let her arms fall to her side, her head drooping in the darkening night. She clutched a handful of eucalyptus leaves as she considered what he said. Was she an exemplar; a standard of victor? How could she be – she hadn't had a problem wasting Troop no matter how Storm had said it, had she? She'd done it without a second thought as soon as he'd advanced, charring him like a lightning-struck tree. She'd slit Laredo's throat, been prepared to gut Hadrian if it had come to that, and certainly would be killing again before these Games were over if she wanted to come out alive.

She wasn't an exemplar. Nobody who won these Games was.

"When I was younger," she unzipped Storm's jacket and got her first good look at the wound. It was an ugly thing – blotched with blood that had only partially coagulated; to attempt to bandage it, she began to lay the leaves on before she'd tie it off with her own jacket. "I was kind of ignored a lot. Because we had some more money, the kids with parents in…less glamorous professions tended to dislike me, and there's a lot more of them than there are of me. So I stayed quiet, kept to myself a lot, played with the animals on my father's ranch. Learned from my brother, had two friends of note my age. Adults who worked on the ranch called me sweet but shy. I don't know if that was true, but maybe it was."

"That girl couldn't kill. She couldn't harm anything, really – an old sick or dying animal, sure, or something that's meant to be meat, okay, but not anything like this. That girl was fine. Maybe she could be a representative of everything that's good."

Sam pressed the leaves into Storm's injury with her palm, eliciting a grunt of pain from him. "I'm just a girl who's killed some people and now has to live with it, though. I'm not championing anything. I'm just fighting. There's nothing good in that. Animals do that."

Storm grimaced as Sam wrapped her jacket around his chest, knotting it loosely to keep the leaves firm as a bandage. "There's plenty good in that if you're fighting for something worth it. The girl you keep demeaning yourself as wouldn't have saved Gannet. She wouldn't have helped me today. She wouldn't be fighting for me now. Someday, Sam, you're gonna have to realize you're more than you put yourself down as."

He straightened up and pulled her into his chest, removing the blanket from their backpack and laying it over them. "And I, for one, don't care what the rest of the world thinks. If this is my last night, then I'm spending it with the only person I'd want to do so with. The Capitol can throw whatever horrors they want at us, but I don't care. Right now, I have you. That's better than everything they have."

Sam felt that warmth from earlier returning as Storm kissed her cheek, wrapping his fingers around hers. No matter what she could say or do, no matter the circumstances, Storm gave her the hope that constantly tried to slip away.

"I think I knew it when I first saw you in that chariot," he said, looking up at the darkened sky studded with stars. "I love you, Sam. No matter what happens, I want you to know that's never going to change."

A yellow, twinkling spot of light caught Sam's eye shining through the darkness of the trees. Venus, the planet of love, smiled down at her.

Sam smiled back.


	29. Children of the Stars

It all came too fast for Sam to see coming.

The cold night dragged on as she sat awake, unable to sleep. Storm drifted off next to her, but Sam only felt a pulling tug of dread settling on her now that she only had the night as company. Storm had made her feel alive, if just for the moment – what would happen if his wound got worse? Of course, that was assuming there was even time for that; at any moment Fresco and Royal could off one or the other and there'd only be three tributes standing. No way would the Gamesmakers let that just continue without driving them into battle.

That is, if Fresco and Royal didn't kill each other _both_ off. Then she'd immediately have to conquer what to do with Storm. What would she do? As the end of the Games crept closer and closer to being a reality, Sam struggled to accept the decision she would inevitably have to make. There weren't multiple winners of the Games; always one, no more, no less. If the two from District 1 killed each other, either Storm _or_ she would go home. Not both.

But how could she kill the boy who had opened his feelings for her; who had told her everything she needed to feel like a worthy human being in this arena designed to dehumanize even the hardiest soul?

_It's what he wants_, a whisper in Sam's head spoke. _You know he doesn't want to go home. Gannet told you. You told yourself. He told you that himself. You just have to be brave_.

_How's that being brave?_ the counter-argument in her head spoke up. _That's not brave. That's cowardly murder – and not of a kid you never knew like Troop, but the one guy who has actually given a shit about you since you got here_.

_Maybe because he wants you to win?_ the argument ran on. _If he loves you, then he'll lay down his life for you. It's that simple. Your district will be proud of a winner; Storm would be proud of you going home and living well. Look at him. He's an idealist, like you always realized. Life or death doesn't matter so much to that sort of person; what matters is the message. What's it say if a sweet girl from District 10 beats the field she was never supposed to? That's a message. That's courage_.

_Bullshit_.

_Denial is the most predictable response when the answers aren't what you want to hear_.

Sam shrugged it off. She'd have to wait for the two from District 1 to die first, wouldn't she? Then everything could come to play; then she could figure this out. Storm no doubt would have better ideas. He was the smart one, no matter what she said – he was the one with the plan most of the time. The can-do attitude; the aggressiveness and assertiveness.

Fresco changed all that.

She barely heard him coming. Only a snap of a downed eucalyptus branch even alerted Sam to something amiss in the forest. She slid her hand over to her kukri with the sound; adjusting the blanket to be able to throw off in a hurry. Storm slept beneath her quietly as her eyes searched the darkness – what was that? Someone, something – had the Gamesmakers released another mutt on them to drive the pair towards the other two?

"Storm!" Sam cried, shaking him once and hurling the blanket off her as the first sight of a body in the forest came into view.

The boy from 12 rose sleepily. Sam had the blade up and reached for her shield just as Fresco emerged from the darkness, sword out and ready. Storm swore and went for his bow as the boy from 1 slammed his blade into Sam's shield, driving her back into a tree. The kid had power – regardless of whatever she had thought of Fresco from the night Gannet had died, when forced into a collapsing situation the Career could _fight_. He swung the broadsword like a rapier, striking quickly and with a fury as Sam struggled to hold him off. Only the size of her sword kept his swings at bay.

Storm recovered enough to shoulder his quiver of arrows and unloose a shot. Fresco grunted in pain as the arrow slammed dead into his left arm – unfortunately, his non-dominant arm – and recovered just in time to parry Sam's strike. He hacked at her blade and dove to avoid her, somersaulting backwards into the dark.

"Where'd he go?" Storm breathed heavily, an arrow loaded despite him obviously in pain. "You see him?"

"No," Sam exhaled, her eyes scanning. "He was right-"

Fresco plowed out of the forest like a train, just missing Storm with his sword and slamming with all his weight into Sam. She raised the shield in time to accept his weight, but he came through and drove her into a tree. The two fell to the ground with a slam, twisting and turning over the dry earth. Sam felt her shield loosened from her grasp and pried away; it was just her, Fresco, and their two blades now.

Storm moved in to get a better shot but the two were too close. The boy from 1 twisted beneath Sam to use her as a human shield as they battled, grappling her neck and trying for a stranglehold. She bit down hard on his arm, eliciting a scream.

_That's blood…and not your blood you're tasting_._ Salty._

Sam managed to shift position, using Fresco's off-balance arm to drive herself away. He flipped over just in time to avoid Storm's ready arrow that smacked into the ground, inches from his head. Sam rebounded in time to receive an elbow to the face – she'd brought the kukri up to intercept, but Fresco's blow caught her just at the wrong moment. She shrieked and stumbled backwards, swinging blindly in front of her to counteract any follow-up move. Before she had time to recover, however, a chilling sound echoed through the grove.

_The sound of a male scream…_

She shrugged the blow off and blinked steadily. Fresco was on her again, his blade swinging through a complicated maneuver. She ducked the high swing, taking aim at his gut and pulling through. Fresco grunted in pain as she hit her mark, spilling his blood from a deep gash in his hip that shone in what little light made it to the grove floor. Still the boy came on – as if unhindered by the blow, he spun and slammed his sword against Sam's kukri, knocking her off her footing and to the ground.

Sam prepared for the inevitable as Fresco turned. She had just managed to turn her head and see the sword come swinging downwards for a kill stroke when her metal shield came flinging through the air. It caught Fresco in his neck, knocking him sideways and giving Sam just the time she needed. With the temporary distraction in place, she whipped her kukri around and aimed straight down the middle.

_Spluck!_ The sharpened metal tip of the kukri hit paydirt, bringing forth a gasp from Fresco as she drove the blade vertically from the solar plexus down to his groin. It tore remarkably easily through his flesh, ripping out intestine and sinew as it carved laterally down. The boy from 1 echoed agony and shock on his face as he sank to his knees. Sam ripped the blade out, full of anger at the tribute who had caused her so much hurt. As Fresco tried to steady himself, Sam slashed at his throat.

Under the dark trees, Fresco was no more.

Sam tossed aside the blade as she struggled to contain herself – _well, three dead now. Got quite a count going, Sammy_. Then she remembered. _Storm_.

Her partner had fallen to the ground a few meters away, sunken against a tree. His face explained all that needed to be said; Storm's eyes scrunched up in pain and hurt, his mouth jammed shut to prevent cries from escaping his lips. Sam spotted it as she approached – Fresco had gored him straight through the center of his chest, just missing the heart. It wasn't an instant kill, but it was fatal. Storm's time had come.

"No," Sam squeaked out a cry. "No, no no."

Storm managed a small smile. "You…you got him."

"No, Storm," she breathed.

"It's okay," he replied, his eyelids half-closed. "It's okay, Sam. We…all knew this had to happen."

She couldn't be brave like with Gannet. Sam had no control over the tears that flowed like oceans of hurt from her eyes, leaving smearing streaks down her dirt-worn face. She could hardly look into Storm's gray eyes and keep her emotions from completely overwhelming her fracturing psyche.

"Storm, I'm sorry," she cried.

"I'm not," he smiled weakly, reaching his fingers far enough to grip her hand. "Don't be sorry for me. Any other way, I wouldn't be here. I could be a thousand other places dying in some other age…but all I really want is to be here alongside you."

He fretted with pain momentarily before continuing, his words barely audible now as life slowly slipped away. "I'm happy I got you this far. There's just one left, Sam…you have to finish the rest. You…deserve to go back home. Go back to what you love."

"I love _you!_" Sam cried, saying the words that had never escaped her lips. "I don't want to lose you!"

"You won't," he replied. "You told me you wanted to reach the stars, Sam. They're up there tonight. When I'm gone, I'll be up there with them, smiling down. When you look up and see them…you'll know I'm there. But don't make me an anchor. Find another way to love, another person. Go out and see beauty again…I don't want whatever I am to bring you down. I love you; don't give up now."

Sam sniffed aside tears. "I'll keep fighting. I won't forget you, Storm."

He struggled to bring in enough breath now, inhaling in shallow, short bursts with a voice just loud enough to be heard. "You can touch the stars, Sam. You're the brightest star there is."

His fingers went limp in her hand, sliding away back to the earth. A last exhale drew out from Storm's breath as he let his head slump to the ground, his eyes glassing over with glaze. Deep within the desert somewhere far from District 12, Storm Hawthorne slipped away.

_Boom!_

Sam slumped her head and shoulders over his body, closing his eyes for the final time. She clutched a handful of sand stained with his blood, bringing her fist to her lips and giving it a kiss. She let it fall from her hand, a trickle of red-soaked earth that fell back to earth like dust from a sieve. The Hunger Games had taken all she had – her optimism, her spirit, Gannet, and now Storm. She had given it everything, and still it had not been enough to save even one last friend from passing on into the dark.

Sitting under the black trees, Sam was finally and ultimately alone.


	30. Royal Versus Sam

_**A/N Disclaimer: Very bloody/visceral chapter with language. Take necessary precautions, because this isn't a pretty one.**_

* * *

><p>A cold white sun rose hauntingly over the quiet desert.<p>

Sam shrugged off sleep, arousing slowly and groggily. She'd neglected to even throw the blanket over her for the rest of the night, falling on the dry earth and passing out after Storm's death. Her jacket had done a poor job insulating her, leaving her frozen to the core. The night had all been too much for her overburdened mind to bear; though she was now just one of two contestants left in the Hunger Games, she felt more stress than over.m

_Alone. I am alone_.

The loneliness hit hard as Sam struggled to pull things together. She looked around for her backpack but it was nowhere to be found - not as if she'd need it anymore. The Games would have to end today; the audience would be thirsting for blood after a day full of violence and action that had begun with the Cornucopia and had ended deep into the night. No doubt no one in the Capitol had slept – Sam wondered how late into the morning it actually was. Had the sun actually rose, or was that some trick by the Gamesmakers to delude her into thinking it was early?

For that matter, were the Gamesmakers tricking her now?

Would Storm come running out of the tree grove, calling her name and wide-eyed in relief of seeing her? Would Gannet wake up on the other side of the eucalyptus trunk, rubbing her green eyes and asking what they would do for the day? Was she even in an arena period, or had this all been some psychotropic experience the Capitol had launched on her to play tricks?

"Pick up your sword, Sam," she grunted to herself in a monotone voice, begrudgingly accepting reality. "Stand up, Sam."

Somewhere Royal was waiting – of course, the only place she could be. The Cornucopia. Sam knew in a straight-up fight she had little chance. The silver-haired vixen held a formidable advantage in a sheer arsenal with her long-range arrows – even with the shield, Sam wondered if she'd be able to defend herself against the kind of pinpoint accuracy Royal had demonstrated in knocking out Cascade and the girl from District 9. Her shots had simply looked so _easy_ – and now she knew Sam had the shield; she'd seen her take it and defend against her shot.

The scimitar would be a problem, too. It was a far longer weapon than Sam's proven but stout kukri, and if Royal kept her footing she'd easily be able to outmaneuver her opposition and strike from distance. Sam trusted her shield more in such a situation, but Royal seemed far quicker and more agile than the blunt Fresco. The Careers had seemed distinctly afraid of her.

What to do…what to do…

What Sam _really_ needed was a strategy. But what was there? The weapons were gone apart from what was immediately on hand. She couldn't lengthen the Games out; the Capitol would clamor for a resolution _today_. There was no closing the physical gap; not by a mile. Same went for the experience – Royal was a Career. Sam was just a girl from a ranching district.

"_They're big, but sometimes the Careers take things too straightforward_," Dallas's voice from the first full day on the train came ringing back in Sam's ears. "_You've got a better chance if you out-think them and use the environment to your advantage. Play smarter, not harder_."

Okay, that was nice advice when there was actually an environment _left_, but the Gamesmakers had pretty adamantly flooded the entire canyon. There was the tree grove, the Cornucopia, and a whole lot of desert. Not a whole lot to work with. Besides, he had said that to Laredo and Sam, not to a fresh-faced Career with a proven record of murder.

_Well, it worked on Laredo_.

Sam went back to the beginning. What kind of strategy could she use? Advantages over Royal were slim, so find one that worked – she was smart, of course. Royal undoubtedly was too, but would they go punch-for-punch in the brain category? If nothing else, that was a start.

_Use the environment. Play smarter_. What environment?

_The mutt, Sammy. The swimming one.  
><em>

Sam shuddered at the ingenious yet hideous thought that crawled into her mind. The environment had very nicely killed off Laredo, no matter how much she beat herself up for it. The tentacle beast had to be in the area after swimming right by her and Storm the day before – but would it give her enough of a boost to take out Royal? Could she rely on a Gamesmaker contraption to win?

It was worth a chance, no matter how long. Better than nothing.

Finding the swimming mutt would require heading back towards the flooded canyon, and Sam had a pretty good idea where she'd be able to make her endgame. Royal had likely camped near the Cornucopia if she hadn't gone out hunting herself; all the better to use the food and water she'd won. If Sam could sneak out of the grove right at the edge of the water, she had a chance at provoking the mutt before Royal engaged.

Muted light filtered through the ragged tree canopy as Sam began on her way. It wouldn't take her more than a few hours to reach the canyon and the Cornucopia, but the arena's lighting had taken on a particularly dim shade. She wasn't sure if it was her own thoughts or a purposeful act, but her spirit waned in the final hours of the Games.

_This is it_, Sam thought. _Going home, or the end of everything. Kill or be killed. Black and white, no shades of gray. _

She wished Storm were here beside her still, giving her the confidence she needed. His arm at her side, his muscular body beside hers – she missed anything that would give solace from the jilted loneliness that followed like a cancer in her shadow. As she moved grimly on, the words and goodbyes from the past few weeks came pouring back one last time.

"_Don't hold back, Sammy. Come back to us – I know you can_."

"_I'll be the first one waving to you when you get off that train from the Capitol. You're gonna be a winner."_

"_Just know…you're my champion. I'd put the odds in your favor any day."_

"_You're still my friend, Sam. I'm glad I got to know you."_

"_You can touch the stars, Sam. You're the brightest star there is."_

The weight of the words stunned her as the grove cleared. Sam had envisioned her death a quiet thing in the arena, quickly forgotten by a Capitol crowd lusting for bloodsport. But people had looked out for her, with and without her notice – Jake, Clay, Clara, Dallas, Agrippa, Storm, Gannet…hell, maybe even Cheyenne and Augusta. She wasn't a nobody. She was one more act of valor removed from a victor, a name immortalized in Panem's records. She had survived this far.

_I can't let your deaths go in vain…Gannet…Storm…_

She didn't want to join them in those stars just yet.

The grove opened quickly back into the expanse of the desert, giving Sam a clear view of the flooded canyon. No ripples or oddities stirred the brackish depths, but no doubt that could change. The Gamesmakers had to have their climax…she just needed to stir it up.

Keeping as low a profile as possible, Sam slung her shield over her back and grabbed a handful of rocks. With a heave, she hurled the stones one after another into the newly-formed river – _sploosh, sploosh, sploosh!_ Nothing came forth, not even a sign. Frustrated, Sam grabbed another rock and drew closer to the water. It was a risky move with the tentacle mutt potentially anywhere, but she had to see if she had a chance.

It was hard to see anything in the deep. Swirling currents churned along far below the unbroken surface, but Sam couldn't figure if it was simply normal channels or an actual sign of things to come. She hurled her rock into the water again in frustration – how was she supposed to lure this thing here? She hadn't even thought up a plan; just an outcome. This was exactly the sort of strategizing that got people killed in the Hunger Games – full of potential success, but poorly thought-out and planned.

She saw the first ripples in the surface just as the arrow sang through the air.

Sam heard the _thunk!_ of an impact before she felt the pain. Shock gripped her as lancing anger shot up from her ankle, where Royal's arrow had just missed the front of her leg bone. She fell to one knee as another arrow whizzed past where her head had been. The miss gave Sam just the time she needed to shrug off the pain of the hit and unloosen her shield to catch the next shot. _Tham!_ The slamming noise of the arrow's strike into the center of the shield indicated Royal's accuracy still rang true.

The vixen emerged from the edge of the grove – _she'd been right there the whole time!_ Seeing the shield, she scowled and slung the bow across her back, unhooking the scimitar from her belt and charging. Sam had enough time to break the arrow in her calf off just before the arrowhead when Royal came smashing in.

Steel clanged against steel as the last two tributes opened their fight. Instantly Sam knew she was having problems – her ankle injury wasn't bad, but it wouldn't take her weight as it used to. Already she was forced to rely on her shield and kukri more to ward off Royal's rain of scimitar attacks than maneuverability and footwork; it was a losing proposition. The girl from 1 assaulted her with vicious speed and quick, tight strikes with the sword; Sam just narrowly avoided a grisly wound with each blow.

Royal slammed Sam's blade out of the way and sent her shield flying with a well-placed kick, leaving the two with nothing for defense besides quick wits and their weapons. Sam backpedaled with sweat popping out from every pore, unable to even think about launching an offensive with the hail of blows Royal rained down. The girl's District 1 Career training showed up clearly here in close quarters; Sam felt herself constantly on the verge of making a costly mistake. One slip or a misjudged swing would cost her life.

Royal's training won out, giving her the chance to land an elbow to Sam's face after an unsuccessful attack. Sam stumbled back in pain, reeling from the hit. The girl from 1 swung her scimitar around her fist, circling about Sam like a trained alpha predator. Her silver hair glowed radiantly despite the dim sky, a sparkling, unnatural weave that was an alien to this parched land.

"I guess Fresco killed off your boy," she spoke, her words light and soprano yet laced with an undercurrent of poison. "Unless you did it yourself. Feeling a little bloodthirsty?"

"What happened to your Career pack?" Sam spat back, keeping her weight on her good ankle.

"This is an arena, not a team-building exercise," Royal sneered. "I don't need any little buddies like you. But if it's just you and me left…well, I guess I'd better make it a nice show when I kill you, huh little _girl_? Where are you even from, some forgotten village of bumpkins?"

"District _10_," Sam shot back, buying time. She knew what was stirring in the water – she'd heard just a sound of something odd during the fight. The pitched battle with Royal would kill her; she needed the Capitol and Rex now.

"Oo-ooh, look out," Royal laughed at Sam's defensive reply. "We've got a little feisty one. Is that what that boy you were with liked? You and him, feisty? It'd be steamy television, I'd say so myself. Two country bumpkins in the desert…"

Heat welled up in Sam's stomach at Royal's taunt. How dare she talk about Storm that way after all he had done? What nerve she had – she who had been more than happy to kill in cold blood, without thought or remorse. What right did she have to lord him over her?

"Don't wanna talk about it, I guess," Royal shrugged. "How anticlimactic. That's fine. I bet it wasn't very good. Maybe I'll get you to talk when I tear you into a pulpy mass."

Sam had steadily been backing towards the flooded canyon as Royal spoke, and her foresight paid off. As Royal prepared to launch another wave of attacks, the surface of the murky water broke forth with a roar.

Rubbery purple arms spotted with needles and suckers swung wildly in every direction as a truly grotesque head rose from the new river. The aquatic mutt sported four black eyes that darted about over a gaping mouth filled with spiky white teeth. The eyes had an eerie quality – sunken into its face, it was difficult to tell whether they were even eyes at _all_ except up close_, _or just deep ocular pits. Its head, rather than being alien and animal-like, instead bore far too many unnerving resemblances to a human. The gray flanges that stuck out from the rubbery skin did it no favors, but its entire orientation – with even a spotted ridge that could pass for a nose and white color stripes that could easily have been mistaken for eyebrows – gave off the unnerving impression that the Gamesmakers had created this beast specifically to shock both tributes and the audience alike.

How appealing that it had waited until the Games's climax to show its true self.

Royal and Sam lunged in different directions as the mutt slammed two arms down where each had been standing, grabbing and swinging for prey. Sam watched it drag her shield into the water, crunching it between rows of teeth in an arm and leaving the dangling metal to splash harmlessly away.

She hadn't remembered it being this big…

Royal swore and went for her bow, quickly nocking an arrow and firing at the creature. The beast roared in anger as the arrow smacked into a tentacle, its face coming around on the tribute from District 1. Royal backpedaled and launched an arrow at Sam – terribly wide, but more to keep her honest rather than for actual effect. Sam was struggling enough to keep the mutt off her; it was as if it could keep track of both tributes at once, managing a two-way battle it could in no way lose.

The mutt scored a hit, slamming an arm into Sam and wrapping up her injured leg. She yelped in fear, hacking at the arm with her kukri. The beast screamed in rage, pulling back – but not before leaving a crippling blow. It locked its teeth in her calf much as Sam had seen it do with Laredo days ago in the cave, ripping away an explosion of red.

Sam screamed with the shooting pain that rocketed through her body, threatening to knock her unconscious. She fell to the desert with a sense of finality, unable to even consider standing on a now devastated limb. Blood ran freely out on the ground, her crimson life spilling onto the sandy earth and drawing into dirty pools.

_That's it, Sam. That's all she wrote. You tried, baby. You tried so hard._ _Sometimes the good story is just a fairy tale_.

Royal let another two arrows fly into the creature, slamming home with both shots. The first caught it in its gaping mouth, the second in one of its four eyes. The mutt bellowed in agony and pulled back, retracting its arms and falling beneath the surface. The vixen from District 1 shouldered her bow violently, spitting on the ground in disgust and pulling out her scimitar. Sam weakly grabbed her kukri to defend herself from her position on the ground, but Royal smacked aside the weapon with ease.

"Fucking Gamesmakers are _screwing_ with my _kill_," Royal snarled, her eyes ablaze with anger and arrogance. "I'm gonna give a good performance and you throw that _fucking_ animal in."

A thought flashed through Sam's mind. Was she really insulting the Gamesmakers live? There was no way they could cut that out at the climax of the Games. That was not a way to earn favor in the Capitol.

"I guess I'm going to have to just enjoy this more," Royal inhaled deeply. "Well, _princess_, what was your name again?"

Sam breathed hard, struggling through blood loss to stay defiant in the face of her to-be killer. "Sam. My _name_ is Sam."

"Oh, well, _Sam_," Royal let the name fall off her tongue like a curse. "It doesn't matter what your name is. No one's gonna remember whatever you did, dead here in the desert. No one's gonna remember anyone in these Games but me. Actually, I take that back – they're gonna remember you after what I do to you. District 10's gonna be scared to send another tribute after this. I hope you said good-bye to your mommy and daddy. Do you think they're back home in whatever _shithole_ you live in, crying right now?"

"Whoever's watching back home is proud," Sam retorted with as much bravery as she could muster. "I tried for my district. For my friends. Family."

"I bet. You tell yourself that," Royal laughed haughtily. "Such a _sweet_ little girl. Too bad naivety dies in here. You're gonna die already with that wound, but I want to get my fill in before we go. Let's start with your other leg, huh? Can't have you do something dumb like try to run and end up killing yourself."

Royal drove the scimitar down without hesitation into Sam's Achilles tendon on her still-functioning leg. Sam clamped her mouth shut as best as she could to contain a scream, but squeaks of pain escaped her trembling lips. Was this how she had to die? Destroyed to the point of some bloody abomination by the hands of possibly the most sadistic tribute in the Games?

The mutt disagreed.

As Royal prepared to increase the intensity, the aquatic beast lurched once more from the water. It trumpeted a loud call, throwing its tentacles into the desert air and dragging itself onto the land. In full force, it was a terrifying foe – enormous and slimy, the beast slowly undulated its way across the sand towards the two tributes. Royal turned about, assured that Sam wasn't going anywhere and moved to face down the mutt. She nocked an arrow and fired, but the creature had adapted. Using its tentacles as ablative armor around its vulnerable head, it crawled forward like an unstoppable freight train.

Jake's voice hung in Sam's head from back in the Hall of Justice in District 10: _Stay strong, Sammy! _

_Get the sword. Get it. Keep fighting_.

With every ounce of life she had left, Sam forced her arms forward in the dirt. Blood trickled out of her like a fountain, yet she forced herself on inch by inch to the kukri that laid ten feet away. She reached her hand out the final distance, her fingers just missing the inlaid hilt of the weapon.

_Get it! Reach!_

_Got it!_

Sam's fingers closed around the hilt. She pulled it in and forced herself to flop over to her back, wincing through the agony blasting her legs. Ten yards away, Royal was struggling to stave off the beast with her scimitar – too close for arrows and unable to backpedal significantly without giving the mutt all the time it needed to grab her. Sam knew she had failed abysmally at the knife-throwing station during training, but she needed a miracle now.

She summoned all her courage and remaining strength and hurled the kukri at Royal's exposed back.

_Thunk!_

Royal stumbled forward and coughed as the curved blade planted into her kidney. The mutt took advantage immediately, lunging at Royal with a pocked arm and snatching her about the waist. The vixen from District 1 screamed shrilly, writhing against the blade in her back and a desperate fear of the inhuman, carnivorous monster that latched onto her shoulders and chest with a second arm.

_Who's the real monster here, Royal?_ Sam thought, exhausted and panting through the pain.

With a thunderous, triumphant war howl, the mutt shook its head violently and pulled its two arms latched around the girl apart. Royal burst at the torso, shredded like paper into two grisly pieces. The mutt tossed her lower half into its mouth, holding her twitching upper body like a trophy before depositing the remainder to finish its meal. Sam just caught a flash of silver hair disappearing into the monster's gullet before she was gone. Royal was dead – never to be recovered.

Sam slumped back on her elbows, breathing hard as the cannon sounded a final _boom!_ The mutt barked at her and undulated backwards towards the flooded canyon, sliding away back into the murky water. Her blood littered the ground, she'd taken the worst agony of her life, and she'd needed more than a little help, but Sam had beaten Royal.

She was a victor. The shy girl from District 10 had won the Hunger Games.

Sam barely heard Claudius Templesmith's voice as she struggled to beat off her mounting blood loss: "_Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the victor of the 98__th__ Hunger Games – your tribute from District 10, Samantha Parker!_

Her vision clouded and blurred as the hovercraft floated into view. For Sam, everything went dark.

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><p><em><strong>AN: Don't go away just yet! Two more chapters in this installment. Tell me what you thought of the final arena fight – good, bad, Royal too ugly, the mutt too messy? Yeah, it was messy. That was the reason for the disclaimer at the top.**_


	31. An End and a Beginning

_**A/N: Cynicz, there will indeed be a sequel(s)! I'm planning as I go, but I have a pretty good idea of what's to come and how to develop the storyline. Thanks for the praise!**_

_**Caramellachoco, Sam's kill count ended up at four (Troop, Laredo, Fresco, Royal) with an assist for Hadrian if you go by basketball rules. As for the Gamesmakers and the mutt, well…I can't just give the answer away, heh. Several of the earlier chapters have clues that will bring some light to that question, however; particularly one of the ones with Rex. I'll certainly be following up in the sequel.**_

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><p><em>Thoughts and dreams swam through Sam's subconscious. The aquatic mutt angrily ripped through her cloudy mind, tearing at Gannet and Storm and taunting her with Royal's voice. She turned away to run, but a flood of water just out of reach kept her pinned. The mutt unsheathed a long mane of silver hair and grabbed her in a suckered arm, jabbing one of its needle teeth in the crook of her elbow.<em>

"_Why, Sam, why, why, why," the mutt lamented in Royal's voice as its silver mane of hair erupted in a bath of fire. "Why do you keep fighting? Why do you keep getting up? It's pointless, I've already won! You're a stupid girl from the realms of nowhere."_

_She stumbled to the ground as her leg exploded in blood spontaneously, showering the area in a rain of crimson. The mutt's face charred like a charcoal briquette as black as Troop's death._

"_Are you fighting for something? Everything you have is gone, lost!" the mutt rambled, Royal's voice hardening and mixing with Fresco's acidic tones. "Is it for peace? You'll never have that with these memories! Love? I extinguished what little love you ever had. For family? You have no mother, a brother who will no longer recognize the monster you have become, and a father who never wanted a daughter! It's illusory Sam, pointless! Give up, just give up! Save yourself the trouble!"_

_No. I'm going to keep fighting_.

Sam woke in a soft bed with a start to soft orange light floating through a shaded window. She tried to reach down frantically to her leg, but found her arms bound by medical straps. She wriggled for a moment before calming down – and realizing where she was.

Back in the Training Center. Back in her room on the tenth floor – back where she'd looked out sleeplessly at the alpine sky the night before the Games had begun. The mountain sun quietly set behind peaks of rock outside, bathing the crowded Capitol streets below in a warm glow. Two clear tubes ran into Sam's arm, one carrying a clear fluid while the other ferried a pasty white substance that mucked along towards her veins. She looked away – despite all the blood she'd been witness to in the last few days, she had no desire to watch herself being rebuilt for the limelight by medicine.

More importantly, her legs _worked_. That was a success in and of itself. Sam's dreams had been littered by thoughts and images of a crippled life in between horrific scenes of violence and brutality. Knowing she'd be able to return to her district able to live again – to laugh, to enjoy life as it was meant to be enjoyed – meant the world to her.

She was uncertain about the last part, however.

What horrors awaited? The mutt of her dream was right in some aspects, just as Laredo had been in the cave – how could she return to normalcy on the prairie with the memories of blood and gore etched into her mind?

The door to the room slid open with a slight hiss, startling Sam from her downward train of thoughts. Her negativity disappeared at once.

"Dallas!" Sam croaked, shocking herself with how pitiful her voice sounded in the quiet enclosure.

Her mentor walked quietly into the room wearing a bright smile, his blonde hair made up just enough to sooth Sam's tension. "Congratulations, Sam. You've done us proud. Me. Everyone from District 10."

Dallas gripped her hand and Sam immediately burst into tears – not the tears she'd cried inside the arena and leading up to the Games, but tears she didn't mind shedding. Tears that said there were still happy things in the world. Tears of a tomorrow she could be safe in.

The Capitol's medical expertise brought Sam up to shape quickly, healing nearly every trace of the arena apart from the twenty pounds she'd lost. That would have to be made up – and her bony thin exterior would be problematic back in District 10. Her legs still bore the reminders of the final confrontation, with scars across her Achilles tendon and from where the mutt had ripped her calf open to the bone. Technology had given her the flesh back, but the sight would never leave.

Agrippa dressed her in a soft gown for the post-Games interview with Constantine and the crowning ceremony with President Octavian. She studied the dress below the stage as music played above – a light and limber thing that flowed rather than fitting to her form, belying her underfed body and instead stressing the same qualities her parade outfit had done. She was once more a girl of the wind, fit to float along the prairie – but no longer powerful and strong. She was now the touch of cool air on a summer day; the kiss of breath upon a cheek in the woods.

The dress told her what the Capitol had thought during the Games. She wasn't the ruthless killer in their eyes – still the girl from the country with a penchant for speaking softly and smiling sweetly.

_Just add four deaths and some life-long mental scars and we're good_.

Sam was unprepared for the bright lights of the stage, the roar of the crowd and cheers of glee; it all overpowered her with an energy that harkened too many bad thoughts. Her mind battled to build a wall against the noise that blended all too easily away from a jubilant crowd to remind Sam of the battle cry of the aquatic mutt – of Royal's death, Laredo's gruesome end. Just noise, all of it noise.

Constantine's voice brought her out of her stupor, standing uneasily on the rising platform.

"The person of the hour, our _victor_ of the 98th Hunger Games!" he cheered in his own way through his words, urging on the power of the audience. "Welcome back, Samantha, _welcome!"_

Sam forced a smile on her face – a poor effort, but the best she could manage – and she took a hesitant step off the platform and onto the stage. Constantine gripped her hand energetically, leading her to a seat where she no longer had to battle against falling over.

The recap show stretched for three hours that left Sam feeling vulnerable in front of Panem's eyes. Too many scenes raced by that she wished to forget – the chariot ride that she'd felt how different things were in the Capitol, and the rise to the Cornucopia to face destiny. Carnage ensued there – Royal was shown taking down tribute after tribute, brutally concluding her spree by staking Hadrian's hand to the Cornucopia and just missing killing him before he'd ever had the chance to imagine hurting Gannet. Her cold-hearted kill of Io, the girl from 2, shocked Sam the most – Royal had never been in the Games to get along. She had simply been an alpha predator in her element, taken down by the twist of fate.

Troop's incendiary end flew by, as did the horrifying scorpion mutt's battle in Gannet's rescue from the quicksand. Sam took note at how the little girl from 4 and Storm had cared for her as she'd been out – improvising on the fly with whatever they could find to keep her alive after the mutt had nearly taken her life. She'd never be able to thank them now.

A pitched battle between the three Career boys and Royal over Cornucopia supplies rolled past, taking out the girl from District 11 as a bystander. The tornado, Laredo and the cave, and the night battle all flew by through Sam's mind for everyone in Panem to witness. Gannet's death forced tears from her eyes that she couldn't hold back – with many in the audience joining suit. They hadn't been there in person; hadn't kissed Gannet off to whatever lay beyond. Sam felt a fire of indignation at their emotions. How did they think that felt? That it was just some game to watch the little girl die?

_Of course it is. To them._

Storm's passing struck as kill after kill flooded by. The video spared no detail in his final moments with Sam, leaving the entire affair to draw out. Finally the climax –Royal beating Sam down alongside the river, on the verge of killing her before the Capitol's abomination roared in to save the day. The vixen from District 1 was given no quarter in footage of her death, with the gritty details shown for the audience to delight in. Sam felt sick at their reaction; their glee at the spray of blood and the mutt's trumpeting war cry. It was all so sick, even now just in watching.

"What a journey, what a ride," Constantine closed the presentation, turning back to Sam for the juicy part of the night – her interview and the presentation of the victor's crown by Octavian himself. "Samantha, what are you feeling after the last few weeks?"

Sam stumbled for words. What was she feeling? She wasn't dead, was she?

"I'm…alive," Sam managed to say with a nervous laugh.

"Well, I think I can speak for all of us when I can say your Games were a _unique _experience," Constantine moved on. Even he had a hard time with Sam's shallow answer. "To go from the girl we had up here on the stage back during pre-Games interviews to now, with you as District 10's victor…your district must be proud. You mentioned your brother then; it seemed the two of you were so close…what would he tell you now?"

_Oh God, Constantine, here come more tears_. "I don't think we'd say anything," Sam stuttered. "I think a hug would suffice right now."

The crowd _aah_'ed, moved by the sincerity. Sam wiped at the corners of her eyes, stemming her emotions before they emptied all over for the cameras to see.

"Well, you'll have your homecoming soon," Constantine patted her on her leg, sounding much more sympathetic and emotional than his light and witty banter of the last interview.

He and Sam traded a few contextual questions about things in the arena for the next ten minutes on subjects Sam could answer easily. Her thoughts in skinning the camel, her feelings when the scorpion mutt attacked, rescuing Gannet from the quicksand…questions that brought her all hurtling in to a climax of her own.

"Now, Sam," Constantine moved in. "You and Storm Hawthorne from District 12 shared an…emotional bond in the arena that had us all on the edges of our seats. He fought hard for you in the Games. What would you tell District 12 watching now, considering all he meant to you and your relationship?"

Sam opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She looked down at her sandal-clad feet, feelings welling up in her eyes. Of course he had to go there – to the spear at her heart, at Panem's heart. It had no doubt had the audience begging for more, attached to the two tributes until the end.

"I…" Sam tried to find a footing. "I…I hope they're proud. They should be proud. He was special. I'm not going to forget him, and I hope they won't either."

"Of course not," Constantine nodded in empathy. "And we will never forget, either."

The audience raised a titanic applause as Octavian strolled onto the stage following the tear-jerking conclusion to the interview. The President was not quite as Sam had envisioned him in person – tall, yet thin and wiry. His eyes hadn't changed from that night of the chariot parade – still two dark coals of fire burning in deep white oceans. His black hair looked like serpents seeking prey; his bony face reflected arrogance, deception, and narcissism.

"Congratulations," he breathed to Sam in a silky accent she couldn't place as his bony hands placed the victor's crown atop her head. "A most unexpected triumph from such a beautiful tribute. _Magnifique_."

He removed his hands, his black eyes staring beadily into her face. "You shall be a most welcome addition to the Capitol and our legion of victors. Once again…_congratulations_."

It was a poisonous thing he spoke as he walked away, his gaze leaving her face and retreating back to the audience. Screams from the crowd rained down on the stage, yet Sam only felt a cold sweat. Octavian's words had not been phrases of warmth and kindness – rather, the weapons of manipulation that only a cruel leader could possess.

The eyes of the Capitol audience did her no favors, vapid and wild in the ecstasy of the moment. She feigned a smile to the crowd and cameras, scanning for a face that would give her re-assurance. She found only eyes – brown and blue and green, all shades and colors that said of nothing but the enjoyment of idle entertainment. Only in one pair did she see something else; a look of smug satisfaction and victory reflected by eyes of unnatural blue electricity shining like fireflies from throngs of ants.

The eyes of a Head Gamesmaker.


	32. Epilogue: A Coming Storm

_**A/N: The last chapter, but not the end! To keep reading where this road goes, my next story, "Empire of Bones," will continue Samantha Parker's journey as District 10's victor of the 98**__**th**__** Hunger Games as she struggles against disturbances in the Capitol's undercurrents and her own fears and memories. Hope to have you on board! I'd like to give a thanks to everyone who's read and stuck with "From Dust to Dust" through all these chapters, reading what is my first completed fic for the last month. You guys have been great. Special thanks to my reviewers; every bit you guys give me helps me grow as a writer and produce better work. Thank you for it all!**_

_**As a side note, this epilogue will be written specially in Sam's first-person voice.**_

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><p>I'm still haunted by President Octavian's words.<p>

His black beady eyes see through my sleep and prowl around the dark shadows of District 10 when I'm awake. What will he do? I was a perfect little victor – followed every rule I could, obeyed the unwritten laws of the Games, gave a good show. Yet I can't help but feel as if my journey hasn't come to an end; it's just beginning.

Everyone in District 10 tells me I'll be okay. They're there for me when I can't control myself. Clay and Clara see me daily after they work, helping me to stay sane enough to keep on going. I swore to Storm I'd fight on and live, but all I can think about are regrets and nightmares. Laredo was right. Coming home isn't a victory; it's just an ease of the pain that will never go away.

That's not saying it's all bad. I am finally home.

Jake kept his promise. As I stepped off the train and onto the platform in District 10, he caught me in the biggest hug I'd ever gotten. I immediately fell into a wreck; wracked by the happy kind of tears that don't stop once they've started. For a moment I didn't care about the cameras that broadcasted that to all of Panem. My brother and I had found each other again. I had been strong enough to get out of the killing ground that had eaten twenty-three tributes alive and returned to the only people who still loved me.

Well, that's not really all true. Agrippa says he'll call me in my new house in the Victor's Village, but he hasn't in the week I've been home. Augusta's still back in the Capitol as well, and for all the annoyances and grimaces she made me wear, I know she was looking out for me. It's weird to think back now. For all the times I thought I was alone in the arena, so many people were watching me and invested in my success. Clara's family had started a collection that had brought in modest sponsorship. It hadn't done great, but it had paid for that meal after Laredo's death.

Still, I can't get the little things out of my mind. The big things, either.

Clay hates to leave me, but I feel like a traitor every minute I spend with him. We've always had a good relationship, but Storm made me feel whole and warm inside. I told the boy from District 12 I loved him and gave him my first kiss. Now he's dead; now I can't even think about loving again without a burning seed of resentment gnawing at me. I don't know what to do.

Dallas tells me most of these things go away. Cheyenne laughs and tells me to get drunk and it'll pass; she's already traded in her smoking habit for drink. I don't really know what to think, however. Jake's there for me every time I need a shoulder to cry on; a person to vent to. He's there with a hug and a caress as my rock, my older brother who won't let me down. I know between him, my friends, my mentors, and my future, I'm not alone. I can honor my promise to Storm – I can remember how to live again.

Because as much as I want to deny it, my journey's just beginning.


End file.
